The Blood Done Signed my Name
by Praxid
Summary: As the apocalypse crashes down around them, Daryl and Merle only have each other in the flight from their childhood home. The struggle to survive brings out the anger, resentment, and love that forever tie them together.
1. She Was Dead

_NOTE: This was written in the summer after season 2, so it cannot be held responsible for any canon developments that occur thereafter._

_Hello, all! I do hope you enjoy this new offering- it should be at least ten chapters long. It is called "The Blood Done Signed my Name" after an old, southern folk song. It will tell the story of Daryl and Merle's flight from their home- overrun with walkers- their life on the run together, and their discovery of the brave new world in which they must survive. It will figure just the two brothers, for the most part- and I guess you could call it a love story. It will hop between the perspective of the two- starting with Merle. Now that I'm trying to get to know him, he has had a lot of interesting things to tell me about who he is. Probably someone only a mother- or brother- could love, but I'm finding his mind has some interesting caverns to explore. I'll bring my flashlight.  
_

_This is continuation of my previous fic, "Little Janie Reed," in which I introduce Daryl to the zombie apocalypse in as traumatic a way as I could possibly think of. While you don't precisely *have* to read it to get this, I would recommend it. It sets up the situation and I think will make the experience a better one. _

_Thanks! And please review- I could really use the support!_

* * *

_Part One: She Was Dead_

When he heard the first gunshot, Merle was staring at his bedroom ceiling. He'd been lying there, breathing in and out, for hours. Listening to his breaths, and tracing the cracks in the plaster above his head. He was coming down from a wild time the night before.

All at once, there was a flurry of noise from the room next to him. A slamming door. Daryl. Running out of the house like a bat out of hell—running towards the noise of that shot. But Merle didn't entirely register what that shot was. Or why Daryl had flown out of the house towards it.

He sat up, winced. Took a moment to reassemble the night. His head was aching.

Billy Tucker. He'd come by last night from next door. Wanted to go out to the roadhouse and pick up some women. Daryl came along- though it was like pulling his fucking teeth out to get him to do it. And when they got there, all he did was stare holes into the backs of their heads all evening—staring in that irritating way he had that made Merle want to beat him over the skull with something blunt and heavy.

And Merle had taken some girls home. How many had there been? Three. Three girls. And Billy. And some of the heroin he'd been stashing since he got on the stuff in prison.

Predictably, Daryl sat out on the porch and ignored them the whole time. Sat out there staring into space like he was stupid.

Merle sat up, swung his legs around to the side of the bed. Looked around. There was a bra sprawled on the floor, on top of some of his dirty clothes. He picked it up. Flimsy, with purple lace on the edges. As he recalled, the bitch didn't fill it out too well.

He tossed it in a corner, tapped his feet. Sighed. The house was irritatingly quiet. The walls were closing in. Time went by and he felt himself just twitching with the urge to do... something. Just_ something_—He wasn't sure what. It was just that familiar itch beneath his skin—the one with no outlet. It came back every day when he woke up. It kept him up at night unless he had something to snort or swallow or shoot up or fuck. He could never really wrap his head around it.

An explosive sound filled the air. This time, Merle turned towards it. Out past the house, near the Tucker place. The doublewide trailer that shared this dead end dirt road with the fine and beautifully appointed Dixon homestead.

_That was a gunshot._

All at once, Merle realized that the other sound—at least a half hour before—was also a gunshot. Moments later, two more rang out.

Merle got up from the bed.

He pulled on his pants. Walked out through the living room while absently pulling on his shirt. Leaned out the door while stepping into his boots, squinting over at the Tucker place. The shots had to have come from over there.

Growing disquiet started to climb up in the back his mind. His eyes narrowed.

Daryl was over there.

Merle was about to step off the porch and check on what was happening when Daryl walked out of the doublewide trailer.

As his brother approached, Merle could see that he was completely covered in blood.

* * *

"Hey bro."

Merle said it casually, while he looked Daryl over-confirmed for himself he wasn't shot. He seemed ok, as far as that went. Wasn't doubled over and bleeding. But his _face_… the look on it. Merle had never seen anything like it.

"What's this?" Merle asked, looking into Daryl's blank expression. He looked completely stiff. Far away. He tried to bring him back the only way he knew how.

"You on the rag or somethin'?"

But the barb didn't land. Daryl didn't seem to even hear it as he drifted to Merle's side. He was absolutely _splattered_ with blood. His arms, his chest, his face. And his hands—his bloody hands were shaking.

"Little brother…"

He trailed off. This was getting nowhere. The longer Daryl stood there, the deeper Merle's disquiet grew. He reached out and clapped Daryl on the arm. Tried to pull him out of whatever place his mind had fallen into.

"Stand and fucking deliver, Bro. What in the name of hell is goin' on?"

Still nothing.

"Daryl," he said, leaning forward, "I heard shots."

Daryl turned away from him. Leaned on the porch railing. His back was as coated with gore as the rest of him. It was in his hair, smeared on the back of his neck, and worn deep into the fibers of his shirt. Like he'd been pinned down in a pool of it. Grappled with someone on a bloody floor.

But he didn't seem hurt. Didn't have a scratch on him. This was someone else's blood.

The thought was broken when Daryl finally spoke.

"Merle."

He choked on the word. Cleared his throat, then nodded in the direction of the road.

"Merle… look."

So Merle looked.

Four figures, walking towards them. Stiffly, awkwardly. They were too far away for him to see their faces. Still, it was obvious there was something wrong with them.

Merle squinted at them. He didn't know what he was seeing.

He would soon enough.

* * *

As the figures reached the doublewide and came more clearly into view, one turned towards the pair of them. It paused, looked at the two of them for a long moment, and started heading steadily towards them in a straight line.

Daryl suddenly sprang to life.

He grabbed Merle's arm, tugged him into the house. Shut the door, locked it. Then he flew to the windows and pulled the blinds—thick with dust and practically stuck in place from long years of disuse. Merle could see that his hands had left a little smear of blood on one of the pulls.

Merle wanted to grab his brother by the shoulders and shake him. Clearly he'd gotten himself in some kind of trouble. Why would he go rushing off like that towards a goddamn _gunshot_? He was always doing things like that. Stupid things. And it annoyed Merle. Made him nervous.

It must have been on account of that little girl—the neighbor girl—Billy's wife— whatever her name is. Daryl'd been running off to play hero. Make sure that gunshot wasn't aimed at her.

She was a real pretty little thing. He'd noticed Daryl had a bit of a hard-on for her. That must have been why.

"What happened over there?" Merle asked, "With Billy and—and—"

He couldn't conjure the name. Daryl looked at him sharply.

"_Janie_."

Daryl stepped forward, gestured incoherently with frustration. His own bloody hands caught his eye. He stopped, stared at them.

"Her name was Janie..."

His voice was quiet, but Merle caught it immediately.

"… _was_?"

"They're both dead, Merle," he said, still looking down at his hands.

"Billy—he's shot. In the head. Killed himself. And she… she was dead."

He kept staring at his hands.

"She tried to kill me, Merle… and she was _dead_. She was dead _before_ she went at me.

Merle stared at his boots. Daryl kept talking. Kept repeating himself.

"Merle, she was _dead_. She was dead and she wanted to kill me."

"Wait… wait, Daryl."

"Daryl—you sayin' that tiny neighbor girl—the one gone 'bout seven months pregnant—tried to _kill_ you?"

"Wasn't… wasn't her. She was gone."

"Was somethin' else. In her body—runnin' it around like a goddamn puppet. She was _dead_."

He paused. Then calmly said three words Merle never expected.

"I shot her."

Merle looked up. Daryl nodded.

"Straight through the heart."

Merle looked into his brother's face-couldn't say anything. He knew as sure as sky was up and dirt was down that there was no possible _way_ Daryl would _ever_ do _anything_ like shooting the little pregnant neighbor girl. The one, apparently, named Janie.

"I'm tellin' you she was _dead_—and just kept on comin' at me. Had to shoot her in the head to get her to stop."

Merle looked out from the corner of a blind. There were eight now. More in the distance, down the road. Nine, ten… twelve. More. Walking aimlessly, in clusters. Milling around in the dusty, afternoon sunlight.

He leaned forward, looking out over the porch from the dusty window.

A hand pressed against the glass.

Merle jumped back, dropped the blind. Saw a silhouetted shadow walk falteringly past the window, leaning on it as if for support. It was on the porch, pacing back and forth by their front door. It hadn't seen him.

But he had seen it. He'd seen its hand. It was _grey_. Bloodless. It was missing fingers.

Like something- _someone_- had chewed them away.

* * *

_To be continued! Please do me a favor and review! And if you're writing anything you think I'd enjoy, let me know!_


	2. White Oak

_I am thrilled to get this out so fast- it's like it wouldn't let me stop once I started. Fics are like falling down the rabbit hole that way, sometimes, am I right?_

_Thanks so much for the reviews and the helpful support- this has been a challenge because, as you guys note, we don't have a lot to go on from the series for this relationship. I think it's interesting how Daryl tells his hallucination of Merle, in "Chupacabra," that he talked big, was wasn't never there. Because he hasn't been... he's like the chupacabra that way. Something real to Daryl but that the rest of us don't see. So this has been a fascinating challenge, yes, but also a treat. It's not often you get such fertile ground to play with- and with so much free reign to see where it will take you.  
_

_Please do continue reviewing- I need that support as I move forward with this monster! And, as last time, I'd like to encourage you to read my other fic, "Little Janie Reed," as I think it will make this make a lot more sense. Also, I'm proud of the story and want to share! ;)_

* * *

_White Oak:_

The whole story came out in a slow trickle. Daryl faltered at first—but he told Merle everything that happened in the neighbor's doublewide. He was starting to come back to himself.

"More comin'" Daryl said, standing at the window, holding one slat of the blind open slightly—peering through it. The shadow of the figure pacing on the porch covered his face as it wandered by.

Merle was getting frustrated. He didn't like the feeling he was getting. They were trapped in a cage. The house was getting smaller and smaller around them. He began noticing the press of the walls—the harsh light stabbing through the blinds at the old plaster. The dust motes in the air looked heavy. He could practically smell the sense of danger. He'd been in some pretty bad scrapes before, but _this_? This was different. Someone jumps you outside a bar, you know what to do.

He didn't know what to expect from this.

And Daryl was right—there were more coming. If it kept up, they were going to get surrounded. Fast.

"More comin', alright," Merle said, "But more of _what_? What in the name of _shit_ is goin' on?"

Daryl turned to face him again.

"Got no fucking idea."

* * *

But it became clear very quickly that Daryl understood more than he realized about what had happened. Daryl was keeping watch on the progress of the small and growing crowd outside—walking from widow to window relentlessly, carefully tracking their movements through the blinds.

As he checked from room to room, window to window, he talked to Merle. Really, he was talking _through_ Merle—thinking out loud. Merle was just along for the ride. Daryl assembled the pieces bit by bit—swiftly, cleanly—putting everything together in that way he had that made his brother feel dumb as a post. Despite everything, that little itch of annoyance rose up in the back of Merle's mind as he watched his brother unthread it all like it was nothing.

"Remember Billy sayin' Janie got grabbed by some crazy asshole—out at the back lot by the truck stop? And he said she was sick with somethin' at home? Stayin' in bed?"

He darted into Merle's room, stepping over that pile of dirty clothes, and scanned the back windows there. He came back out again.

"Must've been one of these—these _things_. She didn't know it—but that crazy asshole was dead. Died at the truck stop. Rose up and got her."

He drifted down the hall and into his own room. Talked through the open door.

"Janie had a bite mark on her—I saw it. Human teeth. Must've been bit and _that_ made her sick. She was tryin' to bite me the whole time… she bit into her little pet cat before she turned on me. She wanted to eat my fucking _flesh_, Merle. She would've tucked into me like a goddamned Christmas _dinner_ if I didn't stop her first."

He walked past Merle into the kitchen. Merle felt more and more useless by the second as he stood there. His head was still throbbing. He was groggy. He tried to cut through the sluggish haze. Smacked himself on the head a few times as if he could kick start his brain.

"So… yeah… that's gotta be it. Whatever's in the bite… it kills you. And it makes you one of 'em, and then you're a dead man walkin'… tryin' to bite someone else and spread it even more."

He was still in the kitchen. Heard him push something out of the way in there. Probably off the window sill.

"Nothing stopped her but a shot to the head. Dunno if it's the only way… but it's the only way that worked when she came at me."

He drifted into the doorway, stopped. The blood was starting to dry all over him. Somehow it looked even worse that way than it did fresh.

Merle finally spoke up.

"But this don't—it don't _happen_, Daryl. Not this kinda thing. And where'd all of it _come_ from? How'd it happen so damn _fast_?"

"Ain't been fast—been in the news for a couple weeks. We didn't listen…"

Daryl shook his head.

"Just too damn fool to notice."

* * *

Minutes later, Daryl stood at the back door, crossbow loaded at the ready. The whole front of the house was crowded. If that crowd saw them, they'd be overtaken in moments.

But they had a plan. He wasn't convinced the plan was any good. But it was the only one they had.

Merle came down the old, creaking stairs. He'd been up in their daddy's room. That room hadn't been touched in the long year since he died. They'd come back from the hospital and just never went up there again. Didn't clean a thing out.

Not for sentimental reasons. No one really _wanted_ to go up there. In an unspoken agreement, neither of them did. Just acted like that whole space up there didn't exist. It was like a tomb full of ghosts, or a closed box that might be crammed full of snakes. That door stayed shut.

But his hunting rifle, his ammunition. All that was up there, tucked away in their daddy's old footlocker. When Merle came down the stairs, he had the old man's Winchester on his arm, and the binoculars in one hand. He'd heard Merle shut that door upstairs, quietly, before walking down again.

"Rifle's in workin' order," Merle said, "Looks ready to go."

"_You_ ready to go?" Daryl said. Merle nodded, walked to the back door. Daryl had it propped open. The late afternoon sun played on the tall grass outside. A warm breeze blew across the yard and they could smell the fresh air as it rushed into the house.

Merle was going to try climbing up the giant white oak—the tallest old tree near the back of the property, right at the borders of the forest. It stood in the treeline, just where the underbrush got too dense for a man to pass through. He'd get up high, try to see where they were all coming from. Try to see over to the main roads.

And from that, they would figure out how best to make a run for it.

Daryl looked into his brother's face, one more time. He didn't look too good. The night before… with Billy and those girls and the drinking and who knows what else—it had to have taken a lot out of him.

"You sure you don't want me to do it?" Daryl said.

Without warning, Merle shoved him aside by the shoulder—hard. Stepped past him with an angry sneer.

"What I look like to you?"

Merle looked left and right by the door, then jumped outside without a sound. He was lighter on his feet than he looked. Could run for miles if he ever wanted to. But he so rarely wandered the woods anymore—never hunted. Seemed too wrapped up in his head. Too jumpy to focus on anything. Daryl didn't want to admit it to himself, but he knew it was because of the drugs. Merle had to be getting into something worse—worse than before he was prison.

But he pushed the thought away—didn't let it take hold. This wasn't the time for any of that.

Merle walked out into the tall grass, and it brushed along his knees. But he didn't stop talking—and he didn't turn around as he spat out the rest.

"I ain't no pussy, little brother. Don't you forget it."

The sun poured over his shoulders as the wind shifted, pulling the few clouds above away from the house. The patterns of the tree branches flowed all around Merle's back in tangled configurations of shadow.

"Ain't some weak little _bitch_ like that one you just shot down."

* * *

Daryl stared intently into the backyard—long and wide and full of tall grass. Nothing moved but the stalks in the wind.

Merle had walked straight to that white oak like it was an ordinary day. Left it to Daryl to cover him with the crossbow—didn't bother to check behind him to see if anything was coming.

Daryl breathed silently and deeply, standing halfway out the back door, crossbow steady in his grip. It was just like waiting in a hunting blind. Nothing more. Waiting until something moved and that finely honed instinct told him to aim and fire.

Something turned the corner a moment later. He almost felt like he had sensed it coming before it came into view. That he knew it was there. Like this moment had always been, and he was just playing out something that had been written and rehearsed years ago.

It was a teenage boy.

Slight. Still in that gangly stage before he'd really fill out and become a man. But this boy would never be a man.

His skin was white. There was blood on his t-shirt—for a band that Daryl had, predictably, never heard of. The first instinct, for Daryl, was to shoot immediately. But he waited.

The figure saw him, looked steadily at him with dead eyes. It approached. The boy had brown hair, matted down with dirt and gore. As he shifted, Daryl could see there was something wrong with one side of his skull—like it had been knocked in from a heavy impact.

He walked—lurched—towards Daryl. The grass rustled around his legs. It sounded like running water. He was about twenty-five feet away.

Throttled, scraping sounds gurgled out of his open mouth. As he came closer—twenty, fifteen—ten feet away, Daryl saw his perfect teeth—still in braces. His clouded eyes. The blood droplets on his brow.

At five feet away, Daryl took his aim.

The sun glinted off the boy's wristwatch as it suddenly let out a series of jarring, electronic beeps. It was still running. Marking the hour.

Daryl fired point blank. The boy collapsed on the ground, an arrow shaft through his eye.

* * *

Soon, there were a pile of bodies sprawled in the grass.

It became easier every time.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could still see Janie's face—looming over him, trying to close in. The blood running from her mouth, dripping onto his face. The saliva mixing with it and pouring out of her mouth. The smell of dried sweat. Her ashen face, covered in scratches from her pet cat—the one she'd tried to eat. The one she'd certainly killed.

But he pushed that deep down, aimed at the next of the dead, walking around the house from the front yard. Made sure the path would stay clear for Merle. His brother was well over eighty feet in the air, above it all in the treeline. Somewhere up high in the late afternoon sun.

The next one was wearing khakis and a business shirt. No blazer. Sunglasses still clipped to his breast pocket. Daryl dropped him when he got close to the door.

He was running low on arrows. So he slipped out and stepped into the throng of bodies. Planted a foot on one of them—on the chest—and tugged out the arrow from the head. And another. Watching himself collect each one he'd fired—scummy with coagulated gore. And he didn't feel anything.

Made it a point not to.

He looked up at the sound of something in the grass, raised the crossbow fast.

It was Merle.

"Well, little brother," Merle said, walking with Daryl into the house—closing the door behind them.

"There's not much movin' out there."

He shook his head. Chuckled once.

"If there was some kind of evacuation, we done gone and missed it."

* * *

For the last time, they sat together on the living room sofa.

"Saw smoke risin' out from the main road. Probably a pileup. Road must be blocked somethin' awful."

Daryl nodded.

"Right—and the gunshots… they drew 'em all in here from the main roads. So that means the truck's out. We gotta use the bike. We'll get 'round stuff fast that way. Just gotta watch out for bein' grabbed from the sides."

Merle smiled a small smile.

"Guess I'll have to take you along on the back."

Merle got up, headed to his room. Clearly going to grab what he could to take with them when they fled. He turned at the door, looked back at his brother.

"Not exactly who I dreamed of hangin' on me from the bitch seat."

Daryl rolled his eyes as he wandered into his own room.

"Oh, _shut up_, will you?"

* * *

They started packing, fast as they could—picking through their lives with brutal speed. They couldn't carry much on the bike, but neither of them had much they wanted to bring with them. Just what they needed to live.

Daryl drifted out of his room. He was ready to go—his bag was neatly packed with all the essentials before this had happened. He'd prepared it a few days ago. He'd been working on plans to skip town for a while.

So he went into the bathroom, stripped off his ruined clothes and tried to clean off the dried blood. Watched the it run down the drain. Saw it in thin, brownish streaks pooled with the water on the floor. He left patterns on the tile with his bare feet. Hard to believe so much of blood could come from a pair of things so damn _small_ as that cat and that little girl.

When he came back to his own bedroom, Merle was standing there in the middle of it, looking a little confused.

"Bro, why you packed already?"

_Because I've been fixing to take off for weeks and wasn't going to tell you so I'd never have to see you again._

Daryl didn't say it. Instead, he brushed by his brother, and started rifling through drawers in the living room.

"Where we got the stuff for the .38?"

He found it. Stashed it in the pack. Looked around. There was nothing else.

"Alright," he said, "It's time."

"How we do this?"

"Well… they're stupid as fuck. That much is obvious or we'd be dead already."

So they filled some old bottles with rags soaked in kerosene. Threw them at the back of the house, in the grass. As they smoldered and spread, Merle fired five shots out the back door.

Where Daryl stood, in the living room, he could see the crowd outside turning toward the sound.

They seemed to follow each other—one by one they drifted towards the back. Merle fired again. They headed for it. There only a half dozen or so in the front yard.

Merle walked fast through the house, and Daryl threw open the front door.

Merle went through first, and the pacing figure on the porch turned for him. He lunged forward, stabbed it in the eye, and tugged out his hunting knife in one fast thrust. It crumpled. They barely registered what it looked like as they bolted down into the yard.

Merle jumped for the bike as the five remaining started to close with them. Daryl shot two through the head as they got close. Merle revved the engine to life. Daryl jumped on the back, and an instant later, they were on the move.

They blew by a few stray figures standing in the road. But they were too fast for the dead to grab them. They pulled past the doublewide. Janie's windchimes glinted in the sun.

They reached the end of the road. Turned the corner. Daryl looked back, and for just a moment, he could see the house. Back there at the dead end. The windows flat and lifeless, staring out into the road like dead eyes. And the smoke rising up from behind. Then they moved on, and the house disappeared.

It was dizzying. For a moment, everything else was forgotten. He'd made it out.

He was free of that place. Forever. It was like it didn't exist anymore. He made it out, just like he said he would.

He just brought Merle along with him.


	3. Triumph

_Hi folks- I have another chapter for you, that I was closed to finished with it when I posted the last one. Having several writing deadlines of a professional nature coming up, I think this every-other-day-thing will be coming to a close forthwith. _

_I don't know what it is about this universe, or these characters, but it's like I just can't stop writing. I need to pull myself away long enough to do some, like, work. Stupid work. Getting in the way of my fun!  
_

_Please oh please do review. It makes me ever so happy, as you can imagine! And again, feel free to point me to whatever WD fic you think I'd enjoy, or say hi, or what have you. Talk to you all later! :)  
_

* * *

_Triumph:_

Merle sat in the darkness, under the wide canopy of stars. Daryl was asleep in a pile by the dim embers of their low fire. For long hours, Merle watched his brother sleep, and relentlessly scanned the darkness for anything that might approach.

He'd been sitting too long. His legs were stiff. And that old, nameless, nervous _something_ was working under his skin again—jabbing at him like it always did.

He was bored.

They'd pushed through the main road as fast as they could. And they just kept on going. They both knew the side roads well, so they went into the outskirts of town, away from the forest and into the country where the farmland rose up. Where you could see anything coming at you from a long way away. But there had been no one and nothing around, save a few of the dead wandering in the road. Some abandoned cars.

It was like everyone had vanished overnight.

They headed for one of the farms—figured they could hole up at the farmhouse, if it was abandoned. But when they got off the bike and walked up to the porch, they saw the bloody handprints on the window panes. They heard something moving in the room behind. That slow, awkward, uneven gait. The one they were getting to know and listen for.

Who knew how many were in there. Best leave it alone.

So as they lost the light, they decided to sleep out in the open air. Way off on the far edge of the property, on a high hill that rose up into a bluff, overhanging one of the more remote and rural bends of Sweetwater Creek.

Merle took first watch. Forced Daryl to eat something from his bag before he collapsed on the lone, thin bedroll they'd brought with them. Merle thought he looked tired. Strongly suspected Daryl was thinking the same of him.

The stars came out overhead and the world got quiet. He could hear the frogs singing for their mates. Nothing much had changed for _them_.

And the fire smoldered low, and his brother slept like the dead. Like the dead _used_ to sleep, anyhow.

After a while, Merle whispered his brother's name.

"Daryl…"

He waited. Nothing. Daryl was out cold. Out deeper than Merle had seen him since he was a little kid.

He got up, stepped away down the bluff. He didn't go for the regular stash—the one Daryl knew about and he'd packed up in the saddlebags. He went for the other one—the one he'd hidden down at the bottom of his rucksack where Daryl wouldn't look.

And then reached into his vest, and slipped out the needle and tourniquet from the inside pocket. He walked far enough away that he was out of sight, and sat in the grass.

He tried not to think about what would happen when it ran out. He just needed to do this now—while it was quiet, and Daryl wouldn't see him. The only concern was _now_. Couldn't worry about later.

Might be dead by then, anyway.

He laid down in the grass, breathed heavy, and stared up at the stars as the rush took him away.

* * *

Daryl stood at the top of the bluff above miles of rolling farmland. He was looking out over the long, open fields spanning out all around him in the predawn darkness. He could hear his brother's breath, slow and regular, as he slept by the embers of their nighttime fire. Hints of morning crept up at the wide horizon with a faint, blue light.

They'd kept watch, but there'd been no sign of anything all night. No living people. No cars or lights. Nothing… _else_.

But one thing stood out in his mind. When he woke up in the predawn darkness, he wasn't at that godforsaken dead-end road. He was in the open air. There were stars overhead.

It all still seemed so new to him. He was really _out_. Their daddy's old house was a memory—a memory that would grow dim and fade away. He wanted to shut that door in his mind forever—just as they'd shut the old man's bedroom away when he died. And the doublewide… that was long gone, too. Left behind, just like the bodies lying alone together in that living room. Alone to molder away in the place they'd once lived.

But he didn't want to think about them. He breathed in the cool, early morning air, and breathed out again. Watched his breath mist and fog around him.

Sleeping a night had done him good—he could feel it. Daryl hadn't expected to be able to rest, but the moment he laid down, he was out cold—lost in a grey, dreamless sleep that seemed to stretch out forever. And now the early quiet was working into his body, easing the tension he habitually carried. He felt his muscles relaxing for the first time since this all started. The natural sounds wrapped around him, along with the cool, still air.

He always felt better out in the open, alone. And somehow, here in the still morning—despite everything—things seemed alright.

He walked down the swell of the hill, away from the bluff overlooking the creek. He kept an ear carefully tuned for any sound of movement. He wanted to look around by himself—without Merle to talk at him and frighten away the animals. But he wouldn't leave his brother in the lurch. He'd be ready if anything happened.

The light was swelling all around, and the colors of the blue chicory started to stand out against the grass. A single wood thrush started to sing.

And he noticed something he hadn't seen in the dark the night before. Down below in the space between the hills. It was a paddock. He headed for it.

There were two large and beautiful quarter horses. A dapple grey and a dark sorrel.

They were standing in the grass, by their empty water trough. There wasn't any sign of feed. He wondered how many days it had been since someone had seen to them.

The fence was nominal—horses that size could break through if they wanted. And yet they stood there, patiently, inside the paddock with its whitewashed posts. Waiting for masters who would never return. They didn't know to free themselves. They just waited.

The dapple snorted and tossed its head when it saw him. Daryl gestured to it, rapped on the fence. Clicked his tongue. He felt a quiet rush of satisfaction when it started trotting lightly towards where he stood.

He spoke to it softly as it approached.

"Hey there, buddy."

The horse leaned its head over the fence towards him, sniffing. As it came close enough to touch, he could smell the warm, earthy smells of stable and grass and good manure on its coat. It pushed its nose forward and nuzzled his face. And for the first time since he'd found Janie, Daryl smiled.

He stroked the side of its head. Its breath was arm against his ear and neck.

"That's a good boy."

He heard a sound, and he saw the sorrel had joined them. It reached through the bottom of the fence, pulling up some of the tall grass and chicory that grew by the posts.

For a moment, he wondered. There had to be tack around here somewhere. Enough for two to ride.

_Maybe_…

But he shook his head to himself, silently. No.

He knew that Merle would never give up his bike. And anyway, they would only bring the poor animals into danger.

No, it was better they stay out here on their own. Along the creek, by the grasses and the stands of windbreaker trees. Here, they might make it. If they weren't penned up, they might just have a shot.

Darryl nodded to himself. He'd decided. He wouldn't take them. They'd be ok, together.

So he walked around to the gate. The horses followed. They reminded him of his old dogs, years ago—they'd trail after him anywhere he went. And he'd loved them.

He opened the metal latch and dragged the gate open along the grass and dirt. It complained like old gates do. He stepped in with the horses.

Daryl slapped the dapple firmly on the haunch.

"C'mon boy!" he said, "C'mon and get!"

It paused a moment. Snorted. Looked at him with more intelligence than it should rightly have. And then it broke out into a graceful canter. And in moments, it took off in a full gallop. Off into the green of the fields, and away. Then the sorrel followed, rushing past Daryl's side, and out into the grass.

As he watched them run, the sun came up.

* * *

That morning, they turned back towards the main roads and headed for town. They needed supplies—and needed a better way for Daryl to get around, so they could carry those supplies. And they wanted to see what they could see about the state of things.

From the back of the bike, Daryl watched the familiar scenery go by. The same old houses and tired storefronts that had always been there. But there was no other traffic. The roads had that feeling of something completely abandoned. It was strange to see. The place seemed dead.

When they reached Main Street, they surprised three fallow deer with the sound of the engine. The trio of slender heads darted up from the median strip, where'd they'd been grazing.

Merle stopped the bike. Turned to Daryl, one arm propped on the handlebar, the other on his knee. A little half smile on his face. Like he found the whole situation wryly funny in its own way.

"Where to, bro?"

Daryl didn't have to think. He'd already made plans, and he knew where to go. He knew what he hoped they'd find there.

"56 South Belmont."

Merle raised an eyebrow.

"That's a pretty damned specific suggestion there, little brother."

Daryl's lip pulled up in a crooked smirk.

"Trust me."

So Merle shrugged, chuckled, turned the key in the ignition.

"You're the boss."

They turned onto Belmont from Main. Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl caught a motion at the side of one of the houses. He tensed—thought it must be another of the dead, coming at them. But it was someone at a window. Someone who pulled aside a curtain as they passed by, and then abruptly released it, again. Someone holed up in their house, hiding.

They pulled up at a nice little house with yellow siding and neat geraniums in pots at the edge of a smoothly tarred, pristine driveway. The mailbox had the name "Thompson" painted on it, surrounded by ivy.

"56 South Belmont," Merle said, kicking down the stand.

So Merle approached the front door, standing carefully to the side. Daryl covered him from the edge of the driveway. Felt slightly ridiculous with his crossbow tensely at the ready while standing on a suburban street, next to a pot of _geraniums_.

Merle knocked hard, stood clear. Nothing. Nothing on the street, no movement from inside. Not a sound.

To be safe, they broke in through garage. Daryl lifted the door, Merle at his side. The thing folded up into the ceiling and the light flowed out into the dark space within. Daryl knew what he expected to be in that garage. Nervous, he found himself hoping desperately, in the back of his mind, that it was still there.

It _was_ still there. It was there and the paint job reflected the light like fucking Excalibur.

A beautifully cared for, perfectly pristine '68 Triumph Bonneville.

The paint job was lustrous and deep. A deep, rich maroon that was almost brown. The metal shone in the light.

"Bro…" Merle whispered, stepping forward. His breath was hushed. This was the kind of thing that got him sounding reverent.

"It's _gorgeous_."

They looked it over. Daryl knew all about its condition already. He'd come to see it last week. Was thinking of buying it and taking it with him when he skipped town. New pistons, carb, clutch—seals and gators. New cables. New chain guard. New brake light switch. Fuel taps. Rebuilt head. There were things he'd change out on it if he had the time… but it would do. It would do nicely.

Merle touched the chrome with the tip of his fingers.

"How'd you know it was _here_, man?"

_Because last week, I was negotiating with old man Thompson on a good price for it. I was going to head out on my own, without you. Wanted to see the ocean._

Daryl shrugged.

"Remembered an ad from the back of _The_ _Independent_."

Merle stepped away from him, lowered the garage door once more. The garage filled with gloom.

He opened the door into the house a crack, flipped a switch. The lights came on. Still worked.

He Looked inside. A moment later, satisfied, he opened the door fully, jumping lightly up into the kitchen beyond. His voice trailed behind him as he wandered into the house.

"Well, it's a good fucking thing you did."

* * *

An hour later or so, Merle walked back out of the house. He was munching on an apple. Tossed Daryl one. He grabbed it with a greasy hand. He'd been looking over the bike best he could—Thompson, of course, had all the tools right there. Wanted to get used to its ins and outs.

"Heads up, Daryl," Merle said, and tossed him a keyring.

"Try those. Gotta be one of 'em—they were hooked on his belt."

Daryl looked at him. Merle tilted his head to the side, that half smile on his face.

"Looked 'round the house. Just back from upstairs.

He took a bite of the apple, talked while chewing.

"The state I found him in?"

Merle tossed the core on the floor.

"Won't need to worry 'bout old Mr. Thompson wantin' his bike back."

Daryl wiped his hands on a rag. Fingered the keys, looking for the most likely option to start the thing up. He was about to choose when a scream pierced the silence from outside.

Daryl dropped the keys, and in one smooth motion, grabbed his crossbow and bolts. In an instant, he was lunging for the handle to the garage door. The scream rang out again as Merle grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him backwards.

Daryl threw him off, and rushed the door again. Merle closed with him, pushing him back into the garage.

"What—what you _doing_?"

Merle held him in place and Daryl sputtered.

"Let me _go_!"

Merle threw him hard, this time—against the wall. Pushed into him close. The screams grew louder.

"How'd that hero bit work for you _last_ time? Seem to remember a story you told me yesterday. Didn't have much of a happy ending."

He was up in his face, grabbing him by the shoulders, hard. Hands digging in. Hard enough to bruise. And Daryl just stared at him. Stopped struggling. He was frozen in place.

"It's just _you_ and _me_ now, little brother. Out there—those are town people. And just look. _Look_ at us. You think they care about _us_?"

"You forgettin' how hard it was getting' out of daddy's house? These things are _dangerous_, man."

"And those bleedin' heart latte drinkers—they don't care 'bout you. No earthly goddamn reason you should risk your neck over them—and that means mine, too—when they'd run the other way if they saw you comin'."

Merle shook him, threw him against the wall again.

"'sides… we got it _made_, man! They don't got the first fucking _clue_ what to do now. But we… we can _do_ this. Nothin' stoppin' us now. This is _our_ world—don't you _see_ it? They don't know nothin', but we can live _our_ way."

"Daryl… we're _free_."

All at once, the screams cut off. The sound echoed a moment against the concrete floor, then faded into a silence that filled the whole garage.

"It's just _you_ and _me_, Daryl. You and me."

Merle looked down a moment. Exhaled deeply. Let him go.

* * *

Everything was packed and ready. The house had a lot of what they needed. For the first time, Daryl took his seat on the triumph. He'd fitted the right key. He left the rest of them sitting on top of some boxes. When he left the keyring there, he'd wondered for a moment how long it would be until anyone touched it again.

From the screams, they knew the dead were crowding the street, but they were hoping to blow by them before they could approach.

Merle looked to Daryl, he nodded, and so his brother threw open the garage door.

At the end of the driveway, by Merle's bike, there was a mess of gore. It covered the geraniums. And around that, there were about ten blood-soaked figures. Blocking the path to the bike. As the garage opened, all ten heads turned right for them as they began to rush forward.

Daryl ran to his brother's side.

"Ok," he said, tugging his brother back by the arm, "We lead them through the garage towards the door to the house. Make a bottle neck and take 'em out one by one as they try to get into the kitchen."

Merle didn't seem to be hearing him. He was looking forward with that strange look in his eyes. The one he got when he was at his most unpredictable. All at once, he rushed away from Daryl, grabbed a Louisville slugger from its hook on the wall, and burst out into the crowd. He brought the bat down hard on the first head, yelling.

"C'mon you fucking _fucks_! Come and see what we can do, yeah? You want some of _this_? I'll fuck you up!"

Daryl felt his breath coming fast as he watched Merle cave in the figure's skull, splattering Mr. Thompson's driveway with whatever had been festering inside.

Daryl shook his head. Wouldn't move before but he'll do it _now_? Whatever the hell happened to _these-things-are-dangerous_?

He threw his crossbow over his shoulder again, and drew his knife. Hesitated a moment, but then Merle rushed deeper into the throng, waving that blood-smeared bat and screaming to the sky.

"_Fuck_."

He had no choice, now. So he ran after his brother, into the thick of the crowd.

* * *

_Let me know what you think! More next week, I hope!_


	4. Oorah

_So I just can't seem to stop writing this story. So here's another chapter, ready to go, a few days earlier than I expected. Speaking of the unexpected—I think I'm starting to get attached to Merle, which I did not exactly anticipate when I started this. It's probably easier to care about him when he doesn't actually exist in your universe. And until I inevitably get jossed next year, this is the way I will look at it!  
_

_Thanks for continuing on this journey with me. I'm really, really, really enjoying it. Three "really"s worth of enjoyment is a lot, let me tell you! ;)  
_

* * *

_Oorah:_

A week after Mr. Thompson's garage, Merle was sprawled out on a king-sized bed in some house they'd broken into a few days before. He didn't know it, but it once belonged retired dentist and elementary school teacher. The dentist and teacher were long gone—far away, dead, or both.

And lying there on their bed, Merle was far away in his own right.

That special stash—the one Daryl didn't know about—was running low. More than that—it was practically _gone_. And it just made him want it more. He tore through every house whenever he went out scouting—one after another, top to bottom. But everyone, everywhere in this godforsaken town must have been upstanding fucking citizens of the fucking globe, because he always came up with nothing.

So he'd take it out on the dead whenever he came across them. He'd cut and tear and slash his way through them until there wasn't much left.

His stash was almost out, but there was still enough left for today. And today was all he could worry about.

His lighter and the spoon and the rest were on the bedside table, next to an earring stand and a framed photograph of the vanished couple's daughter. A pair of diamond studs glinted at him with a silvery glow, and the girl in the picture smiled at him from behind her wedding veil.

But he wasn't really seeing her. He was drifting over waves of memory. He was twelve years old again, killing baby birds with a baseball bat in his daddy's backyard.

The nest had blown out of the white oak on the heavy spring winds. He'd found it while he was playing back there, tossing rocks up high, swinging the bat, and hitting them into the woods.

He was looking for more rocks when he came across it. And in the bedroom, he reached out for the nest as if it was in front of him—reached out into the retired dentist's side of the bed, brushing a decorative pillow with his fingers.

But at the same time, he was twelve years old, and those weak, weird little naked things were screeching at him with their weak, weird little voices.

And he wanted to hurt them. He didn't know why. Didn't really _care_ why. He just did and that was always good enough for Merle. He stared at them for a long time, thinking about hurting them—thinking about smashing those weird little pink bodies as hard as he could.

So after a while standing there, he wound up hard and sent the bat straight on home. And then he did it again. Again and again.

It was that time in early spring where the leaves budded on the trees like tiny green flowers. As he brought the bat down a fifth time, he was vaguely aware of the forsythia bushes in the distance—yellow blooms waving lazily on long branches.

And then there was a noise, and he realized that his stupid five-year-old brother was standing behind him. Just looking. Taking it in. When Merle turned around and saw Daryl… he had this _look_ on his face. And Merle didn't understand why, precisely, but it made him feel really bad.

And standing there by the white oak with that bat in hand, he realized for the first time that Daryl didn't like him very much.

He shook his head, grunted angrily. _No_. Daryl had no _right_ not to like him. He was his big brother and that was that. Merle needed to make sure he understood it.

So he held out the bat to his brother.

"Take it, Daryl."

Daryl stepped back. Didn't say anything. Looked at him silently with that same face.

"_Take the bat_, you little shit."

Merle grabbed him, hard, pulled him towards the mangled nest. Forced the bat into his hand.

"Do it," he said, "Do it or _I'll do it to you_."

Without another protest, Daryl stepped up to the nest. Looked down into the mess there. He looked for a long time.

Then he swung. Hit it. Immediately dropped the bat on the ground and ran back into the house. Merle watched him go.

That bad feeling was starting to go away. Daryl didn't _have_ to like him. He'd do what Merle said and that was almost the same thing.

* * *

The squirrel paused on the edge of a window frame. Daryl sensed the moment and took his shot, impaling the thing clear through with a single arrow. After scanning the backyard, he stepped out from behind the children's jungle gym that he'd used for cover, in case the dead were moving where he couldn't see.

He'd been wandering the early morning hours, again—stalking through the suburban backyards, hunting in an entirely different sort of wilderness than he was used to.

They'd spent too much time in town. It made him nervous. They weren't following the plan. They were _going_ to head off into the back woods—somewhere far away on some old logging road. They could set up a semi-permanent camp way out where no one ever went. Someplace empty where they could wait it out until things got more predictable.

But Merle… he wasn't good for much travel. He was getting worse and worse—less and less reliable. His temper was sharper. He was taking risks. He seemed to be enjoying killing the dead a bit too much. Roved out on his own to hunt them or else shut himself up in a bedroom to do God knows what.

Daryl went to the side of the house. He could see the lace curtains on the other side of the pane of glass.

As he reached for the arrow, a little girl's face appeared in that window. A good third of the flesh had been chewed away. He could see the jawbone underneath. She looked at him, and pressed herself against the glass—straining against it, trying to break through.

He sighed. Pulled the arrow out. Walked away. He could hear her hammering on the glass with her little hands, and he mentally checked the house off the list of potentially safe places to hide.

He was getting so used to seeing these things that the girl hadn't really bothered him. There were rotting things everywhere. You never knew when some new one would throw itself around a corner or lunge out from behind a tree.

He tucked the squirrel in his belt and headed for the next yard.

* * *

Merle lay on the bed and let his mind drift through time and place. It wasn't really the high that did it—it wasn't a hallucination. It was because of the relaxation that came along with it. These moments made him quiet. Made him peaceful. Made him float

It was just a week before that he'd rushed out of Mr. Thompson's garage, consumed with adrenaline and that twitching, uncontrollable, angry itch that always lingered under the surface. He rushed out into a throng of the dead, hell bent on beating them into a bloody pulp. So in his mind, when the bat came down on the long-ago bird's nest, it also came down on a rotting skull and splattered it all over Mr. Thompson's driveway.

And his brother was in Mr. Thompson's garage, cursing him out and rushing after him—helping him take them on. Daryl had wanted to do it safely—wanted to lead them through the garage to take them out by turns as they walked into the kitchen. But this wasn't just about what was safe. What they did that day—it would have been too much for most people—but not _them_. The two of _them_ could do fucking _anything_.

So Merle bashed the skulls in, one by one, while Daryl threw punches, grappled, and stabbed. It was a thing of beauty. When they rode away—and not a scratch on either of them—Merle shouted to the sky.

"_OORAH!"_

And in another memory, he and Daryl were standing in a hospital room. Their daddy was on the bed, frail and grey and sagging. Unconscious. The IV was hooked up to his hand because they couldn't find any good veins on his arms. There was some officious prick of a doctor talking at them in terms Merle couldn't follow. He wanted to punch his face in—because Officious Prick Doctor was so calm and remote and clean cut, and because he stared right through Merle when he talked to him. Officious Prick Doctor lorded it over the whole room, and acted like he was a fucking god over life and death.

And he wanted to punch the doctor because he was angry. Because he didn't want to be in this creepy, white, antiseptic place. Didn't want to be making decisions about the old man. Didn't want him to die. Hoped that he just might.

But Daryl—Daryl was different. He listened to what the doctor said. Started asking questions about their father's care. And when he did—that doctor's face… it _changed_. He looked a little surprised about whatever Daryl was saying. It must have been something insightful—something he didn't expect from a dirty redneck kid in leathers. And it wasn't long before he was pulling Daryl to the side by the arm and showing him something on a chart. Talking to him as if Merle wasn't there. And it made Merle want to punch that asshole doctor.

So he did.

* * *

When he noticed the first sign of danger, Daryl was slipping through a side yard across from their home base.

A noise—it sounded like light hooves. A forest sound that didn't belong here in town. The sound of a prey animal on the run.

He turned in its direction, and he saw a whitetail doe turning the corner fast, tearing down the roadway. She bolted right along the double yellow line.

Daryl had already dropped flat to the ground before dozens of dead turned the corner en masse, rushing after her.

* * *

Back at their daddy's house, many years before, some teenage girlfriend or other was sprawled on Merle's bed dragging hard from a joint. He'd just made some line up for her—one engineered to get her out of her bra—and she was looking back at him steadily with a hard glint in her dark eyes.

And she laughed at him, bitterly. It confused him. It might have been the weed clouding his head, but he was pretty damned sure he'd just said something clever.

"Oh Merle... "

She laughed to herself some more.

"That little kid _brother _of yours got some brains in his head," she said, stopping to take another drag.

"How'd you end up so fucking _dumb_?"

And that was the first time he hit her.

* * *

Daryl was too exposed. His mind was racing. He had nothing between him and the mob of dead on the street but a few yards of empty air. He lay flat and hoped they wouldn't see him as they rushed after the doe.

She bolted by, and then reared. She balked, doubling back so fast that she nearly fell over.

He turned his head.

_Shit_.

There were more coming from the other way.

* * *

On a chilly autumn afternoon, just after Merle got out of basic, he'd taken his kid brother Daryl out on the back of his new bike. After hours on the country roads, they stopped out at one of the corners of the most remote farmland. Trespassed there to shoot bottles off a fence. The crisp autumn air fogged their breath and the trees had lost most of their leaves.

"It's too far," Daryl said, holding the rifle awkwardly. Staring at the bottle on the fencepost way across the field. He was only starting to grow to full height and fill out. Merle was starting to get a sense of what he'd look like when he was a man.

"Nah, bro," Merle said, placing his hands on his shoulders to square them, positioning Daryl to take the shot, "Just breathe. You can do it."

"And remember: squeeze—don't pull."

A moment later, the bottle burst into shards in the autumn sunlight. Merle let out such a whoop that it scared the birds in the grass, and sent them flying away.

* * *

The deer was surrounded. Her head darted from one side to the other as she nervously hopped around on the asphalt. She snorted, and Daryl saw her breath mist in the morning air. In a moment, the dead closed in from all sides and dragged her to the ground. Countless grey, stiff limbs struggled and strained against each other to reach her.

This was his chance—they were distracted. He leapt up and ran towards the house at full speed. He didn't stop to see how many would follow.

* * *

"I'm your big brother!"

Merle was on Daryl, pushing his face into a puddle of mud on the dirt road outside their house. Merle was seventeen, and just out of juvie for the third time.

Daryl struggled with him, but couldn't get purchase on the wet dirt. Slipped, fell down again. Merle pushed his face into the mud.

"Mmmph…"

"Say it!" Merle shouted, lifting him up long enough to let him get a breath. Daryl sputtered, then spat at him.

"_Fuck you!_"

He snarled the word—eyes fiery and face caked with mud.

And so down he went again. Merle was way too strong for him—must have been twice his size at least.

"C'mon, little bro! Say it!"

Daryl was smothering in the mud, flailing to get free. Merle pulled him up again, and he gasped for air. And he tried to speak. This time, he gave up.

"big—broth—"

He couldn't finish saying it. He collapsed into a fit of coughing, again.

Merle smacked him hard on the back of the head. Left him there in the mud. Walked away.

"Close enough."

* * *

Daryl burst into the house, shutting the door behind him and turning the deadbolt. He shouted while lunging for his bag—always ready and packed in case they had to fly at a moment's notice.

He could hear their hands beating at the door behind him. His gaze darted around the lower floor. Merle was nowhere to be seen.

"_MERLE_!"

As he bolted up the stairs to the second level, he heard the front door creak and complain against the weight of the dead outside.

* * *

Merle's father was towering over him with that impossibly large frame and his massive, strong hands. He was cuffing him hard on the side of the head. Throwing him against a wall. Again. Again. Years and years and years of it. And almost every time, he'd say the same damn thing, over and over.

_Be a man, Merle. _

He said it when he beat him. Said it when Merle was six—before Daryl was even born—and he locked him out of the house in a killing frost so he could fuck some bar slut. His daddy said it when he gave him those first pills—the ones that opened up a whole new world for him and sent him hunting for new ways to find more release.

_Be a man, Merle._

And in Mr. Thompson's driveway, he was beating in those rotting skulls. Somewhere above in the white oak, there were bird calls—screams from the circling mother up ahead.

And he was about three years old, watching his mama brush her wavy, brown hair.

And even earlier than that, a long dead grandma was singing something—something sad and sweet at the very misty edges of his earliest memory. Standing at the washline, clipping up sheets and shirts and underwear, and singing an old-time song about death.

_Be a man, Merle._

Their daddy had treated Daryl to the same beatings, but he never said that to him. It was like Daryl was less than nothing to their old man—and daddy was never afraid to let him know it. But Merle. He wanted to _make_ something of Merle.

But the damned truth was that there was nothing in Merle to mold. He knew that if he looked inside himself there'd be nothing there looking back. He couldn't ever be what his daddy wanted because there was no one fucking _home_ inside his head.

He couldn't be a man. He couldn't really be anything at all.

So he decided never to look inside—never. He'd strike out instead. He ran with the worst crowds—skinheads, dealers. He talked big and beat up the gay kids and the nigger lovers in the alleys after school. Along with any of the other ones who were thinner or weaker or _different_—it was all the same to Merle.

And at the hospital, the old man's hands were limp on the sheets. All the fight had gone out of them. There was surgical tape and tubing and needles plastered over the hairs and wrinkles and sun spots. There were tobacco stains on the split, chewed down fingernails.

Those hands must have been cold to the touch, but Merle never found out for sure. He felt no urge to reach out for them.

* * *

"_MERLE_!"

Someone was shaking him. He wanted to drift away again, but the hands clamped to his arms wouldn't stop.

"_Merle_! _Wake up_ God damn you!"

He opened his eyes. Daryl was looming over him. He looked worried about something.

"Merle, it's time to go. Get up."

Merle whispered through the swiftly departing haze, reaching a hand up towards his brother.

"_Oorah_…"

* * *

_Do let me know what you think. More later!_


	5. Fog

_Getting into the meat of this story, now. I am having a lot of fun. I hope you are, too! And thanks!  
_

* * *

_Fog:_

Daryl lifted his brother up from the pillow, held him upright. In his arms, Merle shifted. Groaned. He was waking up.

There was a heavy thudding sound coming from the door downstairs. The dead were ramming themselves against the front of the house. They were so damn _single minded_. They'd seen him, and so they'd just keep on trying to get in the house forever. They'd keep it up until they broke their way in, or something else drew them off in another direction.

Daryl tried to shut the sound out for the moment. There wasn't anything to be done for it—and he had to get Merle on his feet. So he looked his brother over. His skin was cool to the touch. And on the inside of his Merle's left arm, he saw what he realized he'd been expecting to find the whole time.

"_Fuck_, Merle…" he whispered, trailing his fingers along the fresh needle marks.

As Daryl released him, Merle propped himself up by the palms of his hands, leaning on the mattress. He breathed in hard, held the breath a moment, then exhaled deeply.

"Merle…" Daryl murmured, dropping to his knees by the bed, trying to look into his brother's eyes—trying to see how responsive he'd be. Took his jaw in hand, tilting it left and right as he stared into Merle's pupils.

And Merle deflected Daryl's hand, pulling it away with a surprisingly gentle touch.

"Yeah, bro… I'm here. Don't worry."

The sound of glass shattering echoed up from downstairs—as if it had been beckoned by the last words out of Merle's mouth. Something had just gotten in. They both heard it. Merle's jaw tightened. He pressed a hand to his temple, then straightened up on the mattress.

"I'm ok."

And he did look relatively ok. Must have been on the edge of coming out of it. Daryl hoped he'd be able shoot steady. Hoped he'd be able to run.

Daryl rose and went to the wide bank of bedroom windows, overhanging the garage. He could see the mob feasting on the doe. There were enough of them crowded over her that he couldn't see the body on the pavement. Others milled through the street. At least one had gotten in… maybe through the sliding glass doors in the kitchen. And he knew there were more beating at the front door below. They'd break it down, eventually.

Some of the dead on the street were starting to follow those who'd come towards the house. They were drifting, one by one, in the direction of their hiding place. Each moment that passed would make it harder to escape.

A shadow fell over him, and he realized Merle was standing at his shoulder.

"It's bad," Merle said. His tone was flat. He wasn't really asking a question. He already knew.

"Yeah," Daryl said, holding the lace curtains back, looking out into the street.

"It's bad."

* * *

They crouched against the walls on either side of the landing, taking what cover they could—both looking down the stairs, eyes steadily resting on the front door.

"How many?" Merle asked, quietly. He had the .38 in one hand, and was counting the clips on his belt. Daryl had the .44 revolver.

The crossbow was too slow for this—the space was too cramped. It had to be the guns. It struck Daryl that this was less like hunting than anything they'd experienced so far. It was more like war.

The pressure from outside was sending little fissures through the door jamb. The paint cracked where the wood splintered in on itself. Beyond the small, decorative windows at either side of the door—the ones with the stained glass roses on them—dark, moving shapes blocked out the light.

"Dunno… didn't get a chance to see."

Daryl dropped his eyes a moment. Sunlight from a bedroom window floated over the hardwood of the landing. He looked into the raised grain of the blonde oak. Saw specks of dust ground in deep between the floorboards.

He shook his head.

"Too many."

He looked up again, calm and steady. Watching the door buckle and heave.

"This could be it."

And then Merle smiled at him—a surprisingly soft smile that Daryl barely recognized. But somewhere in his very early memory, he felt he'd seen it before. He wasn't sure when.

"Nah, bro," Merle said, "This ain't it."

More glass shattered. Those narrow, decorative windows at either side of the door—the ones too narrow to pass through—had both broken at once. Arms strained through them an instant later—reached into the house, grey and dead. Slicing themselves with the shards of glass still hanging from the frames.

But Merle wasn't looking at them. His eyes were still on Daryl, that little smile on his face.

"We'll be ok."

* * *

Merle looked into his brother's face and told him it would be ok.

He was pretty damned sure they were about to die.

But it _was_ ok. They were together. They'd put up a hell of a fight. It was a fine, bright, clear morning.

And they might find a way out, after all. But if they didn't… that was ok with Merle.

* * *

The frame shattered and the whole front door crashed down into the hallway. The front hall filled with bright daylight. Hugging the corners of the landing, they waited for the first to come through. The groans from outside echoed loudly up the stairwell.

Daryl glanced at Merle—his weapon was raised and ready to take the first shot. He glanced back at Daryl while the first figures began struggling against each other to get through the door.

"Remember the fucking Alamo," he said.

* * *

And then it was all a blur.

Daryl wasn't sure how much time went by. The gunshots blended together, loud and strange and close in the narrow stairwell. The process was methodical. He found himself so focused on the task he didn't really think at all. The dead were easy to strike at such a close range, so he just let his body take over. He'd fire his rounds, then reload the .44. Fire, reload. Again. Merle's clips held considerably more rounds, and he kept up a very brisk pace. And so despite the state Daryl had found him in, it was his brother who took out most of the dead in that stairwell.

The corpses piled up on the landing, falling one on top of another. Soon, there was a small mound of bodies in the entryway. The dead began to crawl over them, following the sound of the gunfire. They dragged themselves up the stairs on their hands and knees, growling—arms straining hungrily towards the top.

Each shot added to that pile—forming a barrier between them and the dead. And yet each shot called more on the street into the house. More came, and more. Daryl didn't know how many there were out on the lawn—or how many might be coming towards them from backyards and side streets, attracted by the gunfire. It was a numbers game, really—a question of whether the slow flow of approaching dead would run out before their ammunition did.

The bodies trailed up the stairway, now, sprawled out over the steps. The dead were crawling up on top of each other, straining to reach them. There were smears of black, clotted blood on the walls—on the flowered wallpaper. Gorey handprints. Splatters of bone and flesh.

Daryl dropped another, three quarters of the way up the stairwell. The closest yet. He fell back to reload. Heard more coming. Frowned at his remaining ammunition.

He turned back. They were closer— crawling over tangled bodies and up the stairs towards the landing. Four pairs of arms were straining for him from a little over a yard away.

He called out to his brother.

"I'm almost out."

Merle looked to him, nodded.

"Pull back."

The first reached the top of the stairs just as Daryl went to grab his bag. A hand grabbed at the strap from the stairwell. Daryl stamped on it hard with his boot, and yanked the bag away.

* * *

Long ago, Daryl sat on a barstool next to a grizzled old Vietnam vet in shabby clothes. The guy went on and on at him all evening about the fog of war. Daryl didn't mind. Since the crazy old bastard talked so much, it meant Daryl didn't need to say much of anything all night. He could just sit and soak in the sounds of the room, and let the man's long ramblings wash over him.

And really, if he was honest, he felt bad for the old nut. So he bought him drinks and listened to his stories for hours.

"It's all _there_, man… Claus von Carlwitz... Carl von Clauswitz—von Carlwitz… "

He gestured to the air and rolled his eyes. Gave up on the name.

"Some German fuck…"

He slammed his hand down on the bar, looking forward at the wall as if he was reciting in front of a classroom. Made a little speech while Daryl sipped from his glass, leaning back on the bar, watching him from the side.

"War is a _fucking_ area of _fucking_ uncertainty."

"You think it all makes sense before you're in it—there are damned charts and plans and ideas. There's a shitload of people runnin' around behind the scenes all official-like—and they think they got some idea how things are gonna go… but that don't mean _shit_ when you're on the ground and some asshole is shooting at you from out of some godforsaken patch of _jungle_ in some nameless part of some fucking country you never wanted to be in to _begin_ with."

"And then—then you really see that you don't damned know nothin' about anythin' whatsover. You're ridin' a wave of crazy and all you can do is just keep on movin'"

"You're just along for the fucking ride— waitin' to see where it takes your ass."

* * *

They flung the bedroom door shut as set of grey fingers wrapped around the frame. Merle grunted and hurled his full weight against the door, trying to force it shut against them. Again and again. Finally, amid the sound of gristle and snapping bone, it closed. He pressed against it, bracing hard against the impact from the hall. They could hear the dead out there, shuffling around, pushing towards them. Beating on the door and pressing close.

Daryl pushed the dresser out from the wall, towards the door. Merle dug his shoulder into the door.

"Any time there, bro!"

When he got close enough, Merle ventured away from the door to help him, dragging it over in one hard go until it was in place in front of the door.

They were alone. The sounds from the hall were muffled, and they stared at each other a moment.

Without saying anything, they seemed to settle on the same plan. There was only one way to go, and it wasn't into the hallway.

Merle grabbed their daddy's hunting rifle. Daryl made a pass around the room to make sure they had everything. He saw the needle and the rest of Merle's shit where it lay on the bedside table, next to an earring stand and a photograph of a smiling bride. He left all of it lying there.

Then Merle threw the bedroom window open, and they headed out onto the roof over the garage.

* * *

Daryl and Merle propped themselves up on the slope of the roof, out in the fresh morning air.

The crowd outside was spreading out. They were scattered all over the street—wandering around in the driveway—surrounding the bikes. They needed a clear path to get out, but there just _wasn't_ one.

It was like most of the dead in town had started to come together into large groups, bit by bit. They followed each other—followed loud noises. So they'd slowly end up in the same places, over time—gathering into massive crowds that were nearly unstoppable.

The dead on the ground hadn't seen them yet, and the dead in the house hadn't broken through.

"Well," Merle said, raising the rifle, taking aim, "Need to punch a damn hole through this shit."

Before he could get a beat on anything below, Daryl had grabbed the barrel, pushing it downwards.

"Wait," he said sharply, shrugging the crossbow strap from his shoulder, catching the weapon lightly with one hand.

He'd just noticed, across the yard. The neighbor's car was in the driveway—a real expensive, flashy thing. He loaded a bolt, staring at that car intently.

He took careful aim. It was just in range, but still a pretty long shot. Even so, he was confident as he steadied himself—crouching low on the pitched roof. He _knew_ it was going to work even before he fired.

And an instant later, the car alarm burst out with a piercing, siren wail—shattering the empty quiet.

The heads below turned en masse, and they all trailed away as one—heading straight for it.

* * *

An hour later, they were out on the open road. The car alarm worked—they had just enough room to drop to the driveway from the gutters, get to the bikes and head out before the throng could close in on them again.

And so they just kept riding. It seemed like high time to get out of dodge. And so now, in the late morning on some far-away rural route, they just kept going. Their hometown was long gone, miles away at their backs.

So that was that. They were out in whatever was left of the world.

Nothing was familiar, out here—it was further than Daryl had ever really travelled most of his life. Just over a week ago, he'd been dreaming of getting out on the road—escaping his daddy's house on the back of the very same bike he was riding. And now, gliding along eerily vacant roads in the warm, midday sun, he felt like he'd started out into another world—another life.

It was exciting, and tiring, and a little frightening. In some ways, it was like what that old guy said at that long-ago bar. A fucking area of fucking uncertainty.

Farm fields blew by, and rolling wide hills. They avoided towns for now—tried to follow the outskirts. They didn't know where they were going.

So when they crested a high hill, and Daryl first spotted it, he was surprised. He immediately signaled his brother to stop.

As Merle turned to him, he could see immediately that he was in a bad mood. With Merle, moods always came and went fast, like the clouds blowing across the sky. The look on his face immediately told Daryl that that smile—the tender smile from the stairwell—had once again gone into another long retirement.

"_What_?"

"There's somethin' down there."

Daryl put down the stand and hopped off the Triumph. Went to root through Merle's saddlebags.

"Hey—watch your _hands_!"

Before he knew it, Merle had smacked him on the back of the head from the bike seat. In no mood for it, Daryl grabbed Merle's arm and tugged it away before he could do it again.

He pointed down the hill, stabbing the air in the direction of what he'd seen.

"_Look_."

He turned back, and found what he was looking for in the bag. The binoculars.

Through the lenses, he could see it all clearly. Yes. It was a camp. A big one. Wide swaths of tents—all in matching canvas. Fences. Concertina wire. Military vehicles. He lowered the binoculars a moment.

"Merle, there are _people_ down there."

There were a _lot_ of people down there. And they had barely seen a sign of another living human being for over eight days.

Looking again, he saw the markings on the sides of some of the tents and trailers: FEMA. What looked like National Guard trucks were scattered all around the perimeter.

An emergency shelter.

"If there was an evacuation… maybe this is where they all _went_."

Merle took the binoculars from him. Got quiet. And the birds sang as they looked down into the little bastion of civilization that lay below.

* * *

_Thanks! Let me know what you think! We're really getting into the thick of things, now! Can't wait to show our boys dealing with other human beings, since we've spent nearly half the story seeing how they interact when they're alone._


	6. Basswood Cage

_This wasn't supposed to be ready, yet (are you noticing a trend, here?). But yet again it just sort of fell out of my head and before I knew it, it was done. Falling hard for a fandom can do that to someone, I guess! We're entering a very dark area, here- in a story about the relationship between Daryl and Merle, some dark spots are inevitable. I hope you enjoy following them through those shadows, and wait to see if they make it out the other side again.  
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_Oh, and the folk song featured here is older than dirt, so keep the copyright bloodhounds at bay, my friends! Do review and enjoy. More later (probably sooner than intended, the way things have been going with this!)  
_

* * *

_Basswood Cage:_

A day later, Daryl sat on a folding chair outside a tent at the outskirts of the emergency shelter. Stone-faced and suspicious, he watched people come and go all around him. After so much time alone in abandoned, empty places, his senses reeled at all the movement.

His thoughts were racing underneath the hard face he tried to put forward to the people walking by. He was in a completely different world from anything he'd ever known before.

To begin with, the shelter was _huge_— like some kind of jumbled, makeshift city. There were hundreds of people packed in tight. The camp surrounded a small charter school—pretty much swallowed the building with swarms of tents.

He and Merle settled in outside the perimeter fence, in an overflow area. The soldiers wouldn't let them bring their weapons inside—and they weren't too interested in cozying up to everyone in there, anyway. So they'd put up one of those FEMA tents at the outskirts of camp. They parked the bikes right next to it. When they did, Merle turned to him, putting down the kickstand.

"We stay a night," Merle had said.

"Two if there's any half-decent pussy."

Merle… Merle was caught up in the throes of one of the blackest moods Daryl had ever seen. It had grown and grown over the last day like a swelling storm front.

No one else would have noticed the difference from Merle's normal bluster, but Daryl could see it in his face. In the way he carried his shoulders. The tightness in his jaw. His flinty eyes.

Daryl knew the look in those eyes. He had firsthand experience of what it meant, and he had the scars to prove it.

And worst of all, Merle hadn't really lashed _out_ at him yet. Not with words, not with fists. There was nothing beyond the usual, toothless barbs that were a part of Merle's natural way of speaking. And more than anything else, it was this that set Daryl's mind on edge. Something was simmering inside him—something dark and savage. It churned and seethed beneath the surface, but never came to boil.

When it did, it'd be bad.

"This place is a goddamned pen for fucking _farm _animals," Merle told him the night before, when they were putting up the tent. He was hammering the stakes into the ground with strong, savage bursts—as if he was trying to murder the ground beneath them.

"When the shit comes down this'll be a high-density fucking _feed lot_. These assholes'll be like chickens ready to get plucked—climbing all over each other and shittin' themselves and peckin' out each other's goddamned eyes."

He plowed the last stake into the ground, swinging the hammer hard and letting out a little grunt at the back of his throat when it made contact.

"It'll happen _any day_ now. You just wait and see, little brother."

And when Merle looked up at him, it seemed like he might be looking forward to it.

* * *

Daryl hated crowds. They raised his hackles in the best of circumstances. And now… all those eyes looking at him as they went by… it put him on edge. He was wary of these people—town people, like Merle said in the Thompson garage. Put-together, educated people who were used to living and working in groups.

And he keenly felt the disgust in their faces when they looked at him. It pierced through him deep to the bone. He could see himself reflected in their eyes—a dirty redneck with a lot of scars and a very sharp knife on his belt. A string of dead squirrels and rabbits hanging on the tent pole beside him. A dim-witted, dangerous man.

A bad man.

Everyone gave him a wide berth, and avoided meeting his eyes.

And he had trouble meeting their eyes, too. He _wanted_ to take advantage of his time here—wanted to gather some information about what on earth had happened to cause this strange, terrible disaster.

But the damned truth was that he didn't know how to _talk_ to anyone.

And so he sat, alone, and thought. Watched people pass by. There was a sense of danger growing in his gut—something inside him warning that it was more dangerous here than it had been in town. More dangerous by far than facing the legions the dead on their own.

So spending the days here was very hard. And the nighttime hours had been the hardest of all. He couldn't rest—woke up over and over again from the constant sounds of life around him. People coughing. Bodies shifting on cots. Quiet murmurs of conversation. Footfalls on the hardpack dirt outside. A crying baby somewhere in the distance. People breathing, talking, moving.

It was so overwhelming that he woke up with a headache.

And Merle—Merle spent all day pacing around inside the tent like an animal in a cage. Since they'd got up that morning, he'd stopped talking pretty much altogether. He just fidgeted. Tapping his feet. Rapping his fingers against his jeans. Grinding his teeth in that way he had whenever he got jumpy.

Daryl couldn't understand it. It was almost—almost as if he was angry that they hadn't been killed back in town.

He shook the thought off, turning his attention outwards again. There was an old man down the way strumming on an old guitar. He was singing old-time songs in fragments_—_on an off, in fits and starts that echoed down the makeshift walkways to where Daryl sat:

"_Well, what is this that I can't see with an icy hand taken hold on me?"_

The music was sweet and it pulled Daryl in. So things weren't _all_ bad. Sitting here, listening to that weathered old voice—it meant he could steal some time to think. It would give him something to focus on other than Merle pacing around in the tent at his back.

"_Oh I am Death, none can excel—I hold the keys to heaven or hell."_

Sitting there, listening, he thought it might be time to finish the wood carving he'd been working on all week. He'd take it out in the quiet hours while he kept watch at night. Or when Merle was away doing whatever it was that Merle did.

After a long pause, strumming and humming to himself absently while picking out chords, the old man continued.

"_Oh Death," someone would pray, "Could you wait to cull me another day?"_

When they'd fled the house, Daryl only brought along two things that weren't absolute necessities. A small block of basswood to work with, and an old, beat up paperback—_Watership Down_. He'd had it since he was a little kid. He reached into his bag for the basswood carving while the next verse flowed over him.

"_The children pray, and the preacher preach—But time and mercy are out of your reach."_

He blew the bits of wood dust away as he settled in to work. When Merle saw the carving, he'd sniffed at Daryl, laughed about him wasting his time making useless little toys. But it was soothing. It passed the time. And he figured that when he started getting low on arrows, he might just be able to make some more this way.

"_For I am Death—I come to take the soul—I leave the body and leave it cold,"_

He'd been working on wood for years—pretty much taught himself how to do it. Sometimes he carved chains. Other times he fretted small boxes with geometric designs. But this time—this time he carved a jackrabbit in a cage. Sitting outside the tent, he held it in his hands. Over a week into the work, it was almost finished. He looked it over with a quiet sense of satisfaction.

"_I drop the flesh right off the frame—Dirt and worm both have their claim."_

Earlier, he'd wandered around the charter school hallways—uncomfortable and tightly packed with people–and found the wood shop. He grabbed the sandpaper he needed to smooth the edges, and a little linseed oil to protect the wood.

"_Oh Death, Oh Death please consider my age, and please don't take me at this stage."_

And it was wonderful, really—delightful to stop worrying for a while, stop scanning the horizon constantly and just _make_ something. He tried to stop thinking. Sanded and smoothed all morning, carefully, and worked in the oil with a rag. Watched it bring out the warm, golden colors from within the grain.

"_My wealth is all at your command—if you but move your icy hand."_

The singing stopped and started with the old man's whims. Sometimes for ten minutes at a stretch. He was in no hurry, and neither was Daryl. For once, he didn't notice much of the activity around him. He was engrossed.

But when a very young boy tripped into view, running down the path between tents, it was impossible to miss the flurry of commotion. He was full to overbrimming with that inexhaustible vigor young kids always seem to have. He was a small hurricane of little-boy energy.

And when he caught sight of Daryl, he stopped in his tracks, staring at the little rabbit in the cage.

"_Woahhh_!" he exclaimed, grinning with a completely open, unreserved delight.

"_The old and young—the rich and poor, are all alike to me, you know."_

He ran up to Daryl's side. Had to be about five years old. He was holding a board book in one hand. Clearly the one favorite that he'd been allowed to bring with him.

Without thinking, Daryl smiled at him—it was hard to resist the delight on that face. So he held the carving out for the kid to see, flat on his palm. The boy reached out for it very carefully—touched the bars gently with one tiny finger.

"_No wealth, no land, no silver, no gold—Nothing satisfies me but your soul."_

Then he reached inbetween the thin bars of the cage and poked the jackrabbit on the nose. The jackrabbit wobbled.

And he looked up at Daryl. Seemed a little less excited—like something about the carving had bothered him.

"Aren't you gonna let him out?" the boy asked.

"Nah," Daryl said, quietly, "He's safe in there."

They looked at the rabbit, together. Somehow, Daryl didn't mind talking to the kid. So he ventured a little further.

"He's ok—it's his house."

"_I'll lead your feet with me to walk, and lock your jaw so you can't talk,"_

Through the bars, the boy petted the rabbit on the head with that single finger. Smiled a little smile.

"_I'll veil your eyes so you can't see—this very hour come and go with me."_

The boy was about to speak up again, but he didn't get to say whatever he was thinking. All at once, there was a flurry of movement. A woman rushed over and grabbed the boy's arm.

"_Lucas!_"

The word pierced through the moment and killed it instantly. Daryl's eyes darted up just as Lucas' mother tugged him away as fast as she could. And when she had the boy up in her arms, she practically ran away while pressing him against her chest.

Daryl watched them go until they were swallowed up by the tents and crowds.

When she'd looked at Daryl, it was with fear in her eyes. She'd seen Merle's bike at the side of the tent. The lightning bolt insignia there. The none-too-carefully concealed arsenal beyond that.

He could hardly blame her.

Daryl sighed. Felt the familiar burden of crushing humiliation—the one that always weighed down on him when he was around ordinary people.

The music trailed on and on. The old man's cracking voice melded with the intricate turns of the guitar.

"_This very hour—come and go with me. This very hour—come and go with me."_

Daryl tossed the basswood cage in his bag and went back into the tent. He didn't really want to look at it anymore.

And the voice echoed after him.

"_This very hour—come and go with me."_

* * *

Merle paced in the tent, flexing his hands. He was furious at everything—the air around him, the sounds outside. The press of idiots milling around outside. At Daryl, calmly making those intricate little wooden things Merle couldn't get his head around. No one ever taught him to do that. And he was really _good_ at it. It made Merle want to beat him over the head with whatever came up handy.

Anxiety nipped at the inside of his chest like a swarm of trapped birds. His muscles ached.

He knew what was happening. He was already feeling the withdrawl. It was hitting him hard. And it was only going to get worse.

There was nothing he could do. He was powerless. Everything that remained of that special stash—the one Daryl hadn't known about until yesterday—_all_ of it was miles away. It was lying on the nightstand in that godforsaken house.

If they'd died there… it would have ended. But they survived, and he had no plan for what to do next.

The familiar old itch stabbed and scrabbled at him with sharp claws. The angry _something_ he never understood murmured incoherently in the back of his head. He didn't really care about plans. He just needed to _do_ something.

When Daryl walked into the tent—eyes fixed on him with a wary, remote stare_—_Merle blew past him, ducking through the flap before Daryl could close it.

He went storming out into the camp to see what he could see.

* * *

Later, Daryl went out into camp himself, bag on his shoulder. He was hoping to replenish some of their supplies—find some food. See what he could find out about what was going on. So he ventured into that maze of tents. They seemed to crowd up close around him like some sort of strange, dense forest.

He passed a tent with a chair outside. Paused. A children's board book was resting on that chair—Lucas' board book. He listened a moment. No one was around. So, on a whim, he took the basswood cage out of his bag and left it there. Then he slipped away, unnoticed.

Finally, he asked some of the military men about what they knew. They were awkward, tense. Didn't want to talk to him. And Daryl had a sneaking feeling that it wasn't just because of the way he looked… something was _up_ with them. And that sense of looming danger swelled larger at the back of his mind.

He listened to other people's conversations, and found the courage to ask some questions in the food lines. As it turned out, nobody knew _anything_ about what had happened. It was a jumble of ridiculous theories. Vaccinations did it. Or some sort of biological warfare.

Pandemic disease, or the wrath of God.

There were only muddled rumors—rumors of safe houses and safe houses overrun. Only one thread remained constant in everyone's stories: stay _away_ from Atlanta.

There was no point in hanging around here. In the morning, he'd take Merle and head out.

But he did discover one thing—what they called the dead. Roamers. Lamebrains. Geeks. Walkers. But mostly that last one.

Walkers.

It was the only thing he learned from anyone in the entire shelter. And so, with that, the things—the dead things—had a name.

* * *

When Daryl made his way back to their tent, night was falling over the camp. The sky was a dark, hollow blue up above him.

A little up the way, he saw a women darting out into the road from her tent. That finely honed instinct immediately kicked up in the back of his mind. _This is trouble_, it said.

A sickeningly familiar arm darted out from inside the tent and tried to pull her back in.

She yanked it away, shouted.

"What part of _get away from me_ don't you _understand_?"

She had a heavy accent—Daryl had no idea what sort it was. She had olive skin, and very long, black hair. It was pulled back behind her in a thick braid. She wore a dark blue sweatshirt with the words "Duke Astrophysics" on it. She was tall and lean. She would have been striking if she didn't look so angry.

And the figure—the person who grabbed her—stepped out of the tent. It was Merle.

Of course it was Merle.

Daryl ran for them. Dropped his bag on the ground, forgotten.

"_Hey!_" he shouted, closing fast and throwing his brother backwards. Merle snorted at him, chuckling to himself. The woman recoiled, standing there in the middle of the makeshift roadway. The look on her face—she was absolutely _disgusted_ with whatever Merle had been saying to her.

People started crowding around the mouths of the tents, watching them. Merle saw them. Laughed awkwardly in their direction.

"Stand the fuck _down_, little brother," Merle said, "Go find one of your own."

Daryl grabbed his brother by the shoulders—tossed him down, hard. And Merle—he didn't react quickly enough, and crumpled. He was usually faster in a fight than that. An instant later, he was sprawled out on the dirt where Daryl had pushed him.

She stepped forward—looked down on Merle. Spat words down at him from where she stood.

"_Get away from me_ and _do not come back here_, do you hear me?"

Daryl stood next to her, looked to Merle and back into her face.

He had no idea where she was from—just that she was from somewhere far away, and that meant he didn't understand her and she didn't understand him. The sweatshirt, her voice—even the way she stood there in the road—it all told him she was from an entirely different world from the one he knew.

And his shitty, cheap, ugly world should never have crossed into hers. That it had was an embarrassing mistake he needed to clear away as soon as possible. And the stares from all the tents around him crushed at his gut with that sinking feeling of humiliation, once more.

He swallowed it, looked down at his brother.

"Are we gonna have problem here, Merle?"

Merle pushed himself up. Looked around at everyone watching them. Put on his full bluster.

"Hell yes we got a fucking _problem_—this here uppity _bitch_ don't know what she's missin'."

He stepped towards her again, and Daryl moved to block him. Shoved his brother into the street, grabbed his collar. Pressed in close to his face.

"_Take a walk, Merle_," he snarled.

Even face to face like that, Merle wasn't looking at Daryl. He was looking over his shoulder—at the woman standing behind him, silent with disgusted rage. And Merle… Merle looked angry enough to strike her. But Daryl wasn't going to let that happen.

And suddenly, Merle eased up. Raised his hands, that chuckle rolling along under his breath. His face didn't look quite right. He was pale, and sweaty. And his eyes—there wasn't much of _anything_ behind his eyes.

"Fine, bro—fine. I'm out."

And Merle kept talking as he walked away.

"Fucking uppity _bitch_ needs someone to show her what a _real_ man can do," he said.

* * *

That night, Daryl lay on his cot, trying to sleep. His mind refused to quiet down and let him rest. Too many of his instincts were battling each other—each clamoring that they were in some different kind of danger that he was powerless stop.

So he stared up into the darkness, listening to his brother toss and turn and breathe on the cot across from him. Merle wasn't sleeping, either. If this had been some long ago hunting trip, he might have said something to his brother. They would have been able talk in the dark. But _now_… he couldn't think of anything to say to Merle, now.

They were in that fucking area of fucking uncertainty—the one he'd been thinking about while they rode through the country. They were surrounded by it. They were deep in its hazy fog.

The way things had gone, everything was spinning out of control. And the dead—the walkers—they were the easiest part of it all to deal with.


	7. Broken

___I couldn't stop writing, again, and this is ready. I sat down with it in the evening and it just poured out... that was that. But a warning: this chapter is fairly intense, and it has some oblique references to sexual violence. None is shown or described, but take that for what it is.  
_

___This will be a pretty tense place to leave off for a while, I know, but I have some conference papers and other professional-type writing projects that require my full attention. So there may be a delay before we continue the thread. Academia, she is— well, not a harsh mistress at all really— but she wants me to spend some time with her exclusively. Jealous of these Dixons, I suppose.  
_

___Do let me know what you think. And wish me luck off in the land of much-less-fun but much-more-necessary-to-my-being-fed writing.  
_

* * *

_Broken:_

The herd that would overtake the camp started with a single walker.

Days before, a body was lying on the ground, still and dead. And when her eyes opened that first time, she saw a blue sky above her. She was laid out on the asphalt, next to the remains of a ruined car. She pushed herself upright, taking in the sounds, scanning the road for signs of life.

A squawking bird made her dart her head around. There was a crow about a foot away, hopping back and forth on the pavement. It had spent the majority of the morning pecking at her arms. Now that those arms were moving, it darted away from her, nervously. She tried to grab for it, and it jumped even further down the street.

She snarled, tilted her head—captivated by the movement of those fluttering wings. The bird called out to the rest of the flock—scattered all around up on the telephone wires above—then lit off into the air.

As if they shared one mind, the others started to follow that first crow, flying off to the west. She watched them go—high above her reach. She strained out for them with her ruined arms.

Then she rose, stepped forward, and started heading west, too.

* * *

The hands reached for him.

Daryl burst upright on the cot with a hard gasp. His heart was racing. He looked around the darkness. He had no idea where he was.

And for a moment, he felt sure he was at his daddy's house. He could see the cracks in the paint on the wall across from his bed. The dusty windows and empty shelves. Then he heard the sounds of commotion from outside, and reality settled in for him. He was at the emergency shelter. In the tent.

It was just a nightmare. A strange, abstract nightmare about home. Home… and white sheets.

White sheets, sunlight, and a girl's hands.

It began to fade away and he lost the thread. But it left him feeling so rattled he couldn't possibly lay back down again. He exhaled deeply. Swung his legs to the floor and looked for his boots.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something. The cot across from him. Merle wasn't there.

Daryl frowned. As he pulled on his boots, that bad feeling that had made it so hard to fall asleep took up a fresh assault.

_Find Merle_, it said.

_Find him before it's too late_.

Too late for what, Daryl didn't know.

* * *

By the time she reached the center of town, that single walker had gathered a dozen others around her. One saw her from the alley between storefronts. One wandered out of a neatly fenced herb garden. They gathered around each other, trailing along in a loose mass of bodies. They moved like the long-since forgotten crows when they flew from the line.

As they approached what was once a savings and loan, a series of gunshots rang out around them. Three living men darted out from the side of the building. There were more dead behind them—and more creeping out from wherever they hid, drawn through the streets by the shots. The men rushed into the roadway.

"Oh _shit!_" one whispered, breathing heavy, stopping in his tracks when he saw the group on the street heading towards them.

They were surrounded. One of them took aim, and the first walker—the one who had followed the crows—crumpled to the pavement. And a few more followed.

But the three men were surrounded. One fired from the rear, trying to clear a path for the other two. Those two made it to their truck. The third did not.

When the two reached their old Ford, they jumped in as fast as they could—nothing in their hands but the guns. The supplies they'd been out hunting for had long since been dropped in the chase. They turned it on and the Ford sprang to life.

As the two swung the truck around, they saw their friend had already been taken.

The dead feasted on every scrap of the remains until nighttime, when there was nothing left but bone and marrow. In the still night darkness—deep and black since the power had cut out—any light could be seen at a great stretch. So when a passing car crossed the intersection a half mile away, the momentary flicker of the headlights pierced the darkness like a blade.

And the crowd started moving again.

* * *

The camp was relatively quiet, but Daryl could sense the signs of life teaming everywhere. That bad feeling continued to grow. It was more than Merle… something _else_ was off… something bigger was wrong.

He didn't realize it consciously, but he hadn't seen a single National Guardsman since he'd left his tent.

Daryl stepped out onto that close, makeshift road. It was very dark. The tents glowed pale and bright against the hazy moonlight, filtered and diffused by a gathering of clouds.

The old man was still singing, very quietly, down the way.

"_Went out last night for to take a little 'round—and I met little Janie and I shot her down."_

Daryl's head darted in the direction of the voice. Did he hear that right?

"_Then I went on home and I got into bed with a .44 Smokeless under my head..."_

Standing there, he shook his head to himself—he couldn't decide if he'd heard what he thought he heard. And he turned away.

He'd had enough music for now.

So he walked off in the other direction, always scanning the shadows for some sign of Merle. The music echoed and faded—sounded muffled and strange as he walked on. The old man strummed a bit, wandered through some other tunes and back again.

As his voice faded out of earshot, he went into a long and, to Daryl's mind, deeply topical rendition of _The Times, They Are A'Changin'_.

* * *

The herd reached a main highway.

As they traveled along the roads—empty in parts, clogged with wrecked cars in others, they started gathering more. They spread out, wandering in a wide swath across the countryside. Always gathering whichever dead were scattered there. Fifty, sixty—eighty. More.

A day later, the roar of two motorcycle engines echoed loudly, somewhere in the distance. The sound was diffuse and hard to pin down, but they turned in its general direction, moving through thick, grassy fields and onto the rural route that paralleled the highway.

A fox ran across the road in front of them, there, and they chased it into the fields.

It easily got away.

* * *

Daryl had cycled through half the camp, and came back to the edge where he started. He would check the tent again, see if Merle had returned. Then he'd start out on another pass.

The old-time music continued.

_"Ain't you glad—Ain't you glad, that the blood done signed my name?_  
_On my hands, on my hands—yeah, the blood done signed my name._  
_On my hands, on my hands—yeah, the blood done signed my name._  
_Oh the blood done signed my name."_

A flurry of activity drew Daryl's eye a moment before he realized what he was seeing.

The woman… the woman with the Duke shirt. She was taking down her tent. Leaving.

She was pulling up one of the stakes as he approached, kicking at it when it didn't budge right away. Some of her belongings were sitting in a neat pile on the hardpack.

As he approached, he could hear her breathing hard as she worked. Her hair was messy. Messier than it was a few hours before, when Merle started hassling her.

_Merle_.

The moment his brother's name entered his mind, he froze. A cold wave of tension flowed through his body. Without consciously thinking about what he was doing, Daryl went over to her side. It was as if he'd been pulled there by a string.

_"Ain't you glad—Ain't you glad, that the blood done signed my name?_  
_On the walls, on the walls—yeah, the blood done signed my name._  
_On the walls, on the walls—yeah, the blood done signed my name._  
_Oh the blood done signed my name."_

"What'd he do?" he asked.

She looked up, exhaled hard.

"Leave me _alone_."

She was breathing fast. Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears.

He stepped forward. He _had_ to know.

"Tell me."

She threw up her hands, as if she could ward him off that way. And that's when he saw it.

On her hands. The marks were faint in the darkness, but he could see them. Bloodstains. Smeared thin, like she'd tried to wipe them off in a hurry.

There were bloodstains on her hands.

And it all came rushing back to him. What Merle said in the Thompson garage.

"_Nothin' stoppin' us now. This is __our__ world—don't you __see__ it? They don't know nothin', but we can live __our__ way. Daryl… we're __free__."_

Merle's savage mood. The way he'd hammered in those stakes and talked about these people being nothing but farm animals.

"_We stay a night_," he'd said.

"_Two if there's any half-decent pussy_."

Daryl took her wrist, stared at the blood there. She tensed in his grip and her breath stopped. She looked at him with wide eyes. The she swallowed hard. It was obvious she didn't want to cry in front of him.

"Did he—"

He choked on the words. Started again.

"Did he _hurt_ you?"

And what Merle had said just a few hours before came into his mind. He could hear him spitting out the words as if he were standing there.

"_Fucking uppity __bitch__ needs someone to show her what a __real__ man can do_."

Oh God.

He dropped her hand. His own had gone limp. In the distance, the guitar reeled out a cheerful bridge in a major key.

She backed away from him. Her tears had started in earnest, now. She couldn't hold them back any longer. And when her foot hit the pile of tent stakes on the ground, she grabbed them. Started throwing them at him.

"_Go away_!" she shouted, "Why won't you _go away_? _Get out of here_!"

He backed off, then, as fast as he could. Felt ashamed he'd pressed at her the way he did. Felt complicit in what Merle had done.

God. What Merle had _done_.

They should have never come here.

He felt cold and sick. His hands were numb.

And yet, somehow… he wasn't surprised. It was almost as if he'd known this was going to happen. Of _course_ he'd known—it was bound to happen, eventually. He couldn't watch Merle every second.

_"Ain't you glad—Ain't you glad, that the blood done signed your name?_  
_In the heavens, in the heavens—yeah, the blood done signed your name._  
_In the heavens, in the heavens—yeah, the blood done signed your name._  
_Oh the blood done signed your name."_

The worst thing about it was that it made so much sense. It all made perfect sense.

That was the last coherent thought he had. He was halfway to his own tent by then. And memories rushed over him. Merle beating up an array of damaged, weak, fragile girlfriends. They were always younger than him by a good measure. Beating on Daryl the same way when _he_ was real little.

And the baby birds—God, those little baby birds. The bloody mess in that nest, way back in the foggy corners of his memory. And through it all, Merle seemed so tall, so big—so strong.

And, perhaps for the first time, Daryl realized that _he_ was tall, big, and strong, now, too.

_"Well you know your name's been written down by that Lamb of God above—_  
_Oh yeah, that blood done signed your name."_

He reached the bikes. Grabbed the .44, made sure it was loaded, and tucked it in his belt.

Then he went to find Merle.

* * *

The herd crested a swelling hill. The wide nighttime landscape opened up around them.

Below, there was a brightly lit assembly of tents. Shapes moving on narrow avenues. Signs of life.

They pressed forward.

* * *

Merle sat out on the very edge of the perimeter, trying to smoke a cigarette. Trying to still his shaking hands. He felt sick to his stomach. The withdrawal symptoms were getting worse by the hour.

He couldn't sleep—could barely _think_. And he'd had this burning anger consuming him from inside. It needed an outlet.

So he waited for hours in the darkness, until his brother was soundly asleep. Then he'd gone out. Collected all the cleaned-out guts from Daryl's rabbits and squirrels, and watched that bitch's tent. The moment that foreign, uppity, college-girl _bitch_ stepped outside, he'd slipped in and smeared all of those guts top to bottom through the inside of her sleeping bag.

He thought what he'd done would make him feel better. Put Uppity Bitch in her place. But it didn't. He almost—almost felt ashamed. It was like something a kid would do. He was starting to realize how much _older_ he was, now—how much time had gone by without his notice. Other people—old buddies of his. They'd built lives of their own, and faded out of his… but Merle? Merle was the same as ever—a blank, empty, negative space blotting a godforsaken corner of the earth.

But he shook it off a moment later. No. It was just the chills and the aches and pains talking. He _had_ to do it. She made him look a fool, and Daryl had knocked him down. He'd been feeling too damned sick to fight back, and fell over like some weak woman. _Everyone_ saw that. He couldn't leave it be. He had to do _something_.

He looked down, realized the cigarette had burned out in his hand. He dropped the stub. Stared at it there. He felt weak. Nauseous. He could barely focus on that stub, smoking up at him from the hardpack.

So when Daryl threw a punch at him from the side and sent him sprawling, Merle had no idea what had happened.

* * *

Merle's brother towered over him. As Merle rolled over on the dirt to face him, Daryl glared down into his bleary eyes.

"You sick, disgusting fuck."

Daryl's tone was calm and steady. He didn't raise his voice. Merle rubbed his eyes, squinted at Daryl from the ground. His brother's face swam in and out of focus.

"… wait, what?"

Daryl kicked him hard in the ribs. Merle groaned, rolled onto his side. Tried to stand up.

"Merle… what's _wrong_ with you?"

Merle tried to stand up again. Talked to the ground while he did it. His arms were trembling.

"What's got your panties in such a bunch this—"

Daryl kicked him again. Merle doubled over on the ground, winded. Gasped for air. His mind flailed around for some reason his brother was doing this. The bitch. Uppity Bitch. Must have seen what he'd done with her.

"This about that bitch back there?" he asked. Daryl kicked him again and he went sprawling down on the ground, face first.

Merle didn't understand. He'd never _seen_ Daryl like this before. It's like something had snapped inside him. What he did… it was a stupid thing to do. Even Merle knew that… but it wasn't like it was some goddamned _murder_.

He tried to smile at Daryl. Spread his hands.

"Brother, come _on_, why—why you so bent outta shape?"

Daryl leaned over him. Narrowed his eyes.

"_What?_"

Kicked him again. The words started pouring out of him.

"You're a sick, cruel _bastard_. You _always_ been one."

"Ever since I can remember you were _always_ trying to hurt everyone—_everything_—_all the time_."

"You _like_ it. It's all you _goddamn_ know. It's who you fucking _are_."

Daryl leaned down over him, looking him hard in the face. Merle's brow furrowed deep.

"Wait, wait, Daryl—what is it you think I _did?"_

Daryl glared at him. He was leaning over above him. Merle's vision was swimming in and out of focus, but eventually his eyes landed on the .44 on Daryl's belt.

He'd brought the gun.

And all at once, Merle realized what Daryl thought. Everything he'd said to Daryl before… _good lord_.

Merle raised his hands in supplication.

"Daryl… I didn't."

He tried to raise himself, Daryl shoved him down again.

"The _hell_ you didn't."

"Daryl, I _didn't_—did she—did she _tell_ you that?"

"I know what I saw. There was _blood_, Merle."

"I _didn't_, brother… why would you just go and fucking _assume_ somethin' like _that_?"

Daryl grabbed him by the collar, dragged him upright.

"Why?"

He shook him in his grip.

"_Why_?"

Merle had never felt so helpless. He clung to consciousness by a thread. His brother shouted in his face.

"Why _wouldn't_ _I?_"

Daryl dropped him, and he fell again. Daryl looked down at him again, spat out the words.

"Would it even be the first _time_?"

Merle's disbelief started wearing off, and he started getting angry.

"_Fuck you_, Daryl," he spat, "Why you even _care_ so much, anyway?"

Daryl leaned over Merle, made to punch him hard in the jaw. Merle managed to block him. Pulled him close by the arm. They were face to face.

"I'm your _brother_, for chrissakes. Why you care 'bout some goddamned _sand nigger_ more than your own _blood_?"

Daryl tried to pull away and Merle tugged him in closer. Refused to let go and dug his hands in hard on his arm. And Daryl looked him straight in the eyes.

"You'll never understand."

He said it like he was realizing it for the first time.

Merle sighed, softly—pained from skin to guts. That helpless feeling went swelling over him again like a wave.

"_Daryl_—It ain't—it ain't supposed to _be_ like this—it _ain't_. it's supposed to be _you_ and _me_..."

He gagged. Thought he was about to throw up. Held it down.

"You and—"

Daryl shook his head. Interrupted.

"_No_. There's no you and me. Never _was_. Can't _never_ be."

"You're _broken, _Merle! There's nothin' in you but what wants to hurt and hit and—and worse."

"I was gonna _leave_, Merle! I was ready to _go_! I had my bag packed and I'd already checked out the bike. I woulda _never_ come back. I was _done_ with you!"

"You're _nothin'_, Merle, you hear me?"

Finally, Merle whispered back—pleading.

"_Brother_…"

"I _ain't_ your brother!"

Merle stared at Daryl—stunned into silence. Barefaced and open, Daryl continued. When he spoke, his voice was soft and quiet.

"I hate you."

Merle froze. Something shattered deep within his chest. He stopped making any effort to deflect the blows, and just let Daryl kick and punch at him as long as he wanted. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Daryl stopped. Just stood over him, breathing heavy.

Merle spit out some blood onto the pavement. He didn't feel the pain. For the moment, he couldn't really feel anything.

Then they both heard the screams in the distance. A commotion. They looked towards the camp.

People were running. Somewhere near the perimeter, a tent collapsed. Neither of them could see anything more, yet, but they instantly knew what was happening.

Walkers.

And there was no sound of gunfire, no sign of the military men who'd guarded the camp so far. They looked at each other. Without saying a word, they understood it at the same time—the soldiers were gone, and there was no defense set up in their place.

Overcome by a wave of nausea, Merle vomited on the ground in wracking heaves. And when he was done, he looked up at his brother, dizzy. The world spun around him.

And in the camp, the screaming started to grow louder in the nighttime air.


	8. Charlie Foxtrot

_I'm hoping to be able to get something to you weekly for the next month or so—I've got a ton of deadlines, travel, and travel-related deadlines, but I'm writing a little bit of this in the evenings. Funny how writing about the undead feasting on the flesh of the living could be considered relaxing... but I have a sense that no one reading this is likely to judge. ;)  
_

_So thanks for sticking it out with me. I'm really loving getting to know you all! What a crowd to share this particular apocalypse with. And really, in our zombie apocalypse, all together, I have no doubt that we fic writers would be unstoppable ;)  
_

* * *

_Charlie Foxtrot:_

Merle was twenty-one years old, and he was pressing hard through the forest beyond his daddy's house—heading way on out through the thickest patches of dense underbrush. He had a dead dog slung over his shoulder.

By turns, the towering branches either blocked out the afternoon sun, or let it pierce through the leaves in brilliant shafts. He ducked through the heavy brushwood and pushed on deeper and deeper—into the darkest thickets where no one ever wandered.

He shifted the weight of the dead dog as he moved. The paws brushed his back limply as he bent low to shove his way through a tangled patch of sweet briar.

The dog's tail hung straight down, sagging flat against Merle's spine as he moved on.

* * *

On the edge of camp, Daryl strained to see what direction the walkers were coming from. But there was nothing but a tangled mess of bodies running in every direction. Tents were collapsing on themselves, falling into the tight alleys laid out between them. No one had any room to move or see what was happening.

It was complete chaos.

And there were more than enough people to fight back—Daryl was sure of it. For the moment, the living _had_ to outnumber the dead. They didn't even need guns—the tent stakes alone would do the trick. But they weren't thinking. They were running into each other—some heading out into the fields, others in towards the charter school. And if they went out into the fields, they would be caught by approaching walkers . At the school, they would end up getting crushed against the doors as they tried to get inside.

Doors on public buildings always pulled outward—to prevent fire hazards. No one ever thought a crowd would push up against the outside to get _in_.

They would smother there in droves.

The screams blended together. It sounded a lot like a crowd at a football game.

Daryl couldn't see any of the approaching walkers from where he stood. For the two of them, way out on the perimeter, watching it all—it was like it wasn't really _happening_, yet. The chaos whirled out of control beyond them, and they were in their own, separate space.

Merle was doubled over on the ground— hadn't really reacted to what they'd seen. Daryl was standing over him, staring into the panicked crowds. He felt no fear.

And then Merle gagged, hunched over on the dirt, vomiting hard on the ground. It drew Daryl's attention away. Blood and spit ran out of his mouth in thick strings. Merle tried to lift himself, couldn't and fell down again on the hardpack.

Daryl looked at him. Calm. Detached. He felt very far away. Like he wasn't seeing what he was seeing—or like he was and didn't care.

And for a moment, Daryl had a clear vision of what he could do next, if he wanted. Saw himself leaving Merle there on the ground. Leaving him to whatever fate he'd made for himself. Making a run for it on his own. Forgetting about him—forgetting about _everything_.

Daryl leaned over, grabbed Merle's arm, and pulled him up.

But as he did it, Merle let out an agonized scream—couldn't support himself, and collapsed again. And that's how he realized that he'd broken Merle's ribs.

Daryl crouched down beside him. Looked into Merle's face. Took both shoulders in his hands.

"C'mon, Merle. It's time to go."

Daryl tried to lift him more gently, this time. Threw Merle's arm over his shoulder and let him lean into his body. He pulled him along as they started heading out—further away from the perimeter. Merle groaned, and spoke into Daryl's neck—head drooping against his shoulder. It sounded like he was talking to himself.

"Charlie Foxtrot," Merle whispered. Daryl tilted his head towards him, puzzled. Merle gasped hard, winced a moment. Daryl could feel his breath on his ear as he rephrased.

"_Clusterfuck_."

* * *

Nearly twenty years earlier, just before Merle took that long forest walk, he found the old black lab lying in the dirt and tall grass. It was Boss—the last of the family dogs—dogs that had really all ended up being Daryl's in the end. They had _all_ loved him best their entire damn lives. The things just glued themselves to Daryl the moment he was big enough to walk around, and they never looked back.

When Merle found him, Boss was sprawled out by the side of the main road. Dying. Hit by a car. Merle walked up, saw that he was still letting out faltering breaths from that grizzled old snout, speckled full over with hairs of grey. He looked up at Merle with those big eyes. Sniffed at Merle a little, where he stood over him. Whimpered once, then gave up the ghost.

And so Merle just stood there, staring down at that dead dog on the roadside. The last survivor of Daryl's dogs. He immediately wracked his brain, trying to figure out if he knew where Daryl was. Looked around for any sign of his brother—half expected to see him peering down at them from somewhere up in the treeline.

The kid was always underfoot _everywhere_. He was like some roving woodland animal. Climbing trees, darting around the clearings and paths and roadways. Like a grey squirrel, or forest fox—or one of the new kestrel fledglings he'd seen wheeling around out behind their daddy's house.

But there was no sign of Daryl, just now. So he pulled Boss up by the legs and swung him onto one shoulder. He carried him unceremoniously down the dead end road. Hid him underneath the laurel bushes near the house, and then he went inside to see if he could figure out where the fuck Daryl'd gotten himself off to.

* * *

As Daryl pulled his brother through the edge of the camp, he strained to keep an eye on the motion behind them. Finally, he saw what he'd been waiting for. The steady flow of walkers—dark shapes approaching against the night shadows. Dozens and dozens—there was no way to get a clear count. More than he'd ever seen in one place. In the darkness, they seemed like one entity—a dark, moving mass of arms and legs. They were slow, but getting closer. Spreading out—each trailing after anything that moved in its sightline. Soon, they'd have dispersed throughout the whole camp.

Small clusters had started dragging people down in those narrow alleys between the tents. Others were pressing on—heading their way.

With Merle hanging on his side, Daryl wasn't going to outrun them. And the gun on his belt only held six bullets. He hadn't brought anything else with him.

There was nothing for it but to get out as fast as they could—or to get up somewhere high and wait things out. With Merle the way he was, getting out fast was impossible. So it was time to get somewhere high. He scanned the mess around them, looking for any possible shelter.

In that instant, it seemed like Merle read his mind.

"Truck," Merle said, nodding off to their right—a supply truck, a good distance away.

Daryl dragged Merle along with him across the hardpack. He was doing real bad—worse than Daryl would ever have expected. He could feel tremors running through Merle's arms. At times he had to hold Merle upright, and his shoes trailed in the dirt.

He wasn't sure Merle would stay conscious long enough to get him somewhere safe. Shook the thought off. There was nothing for it but to keep pushing forward until they were both safe or they were both dead.

A movement from the corner of his eye. He spun to meet it. The first had reached them. Letting Merle drop to his knees, he raised the .44 and fired.

Now there were five bullets.

More approached—closing in, fast. Daryl hoisted Merle back up on his shoulder, and Merle stifled a scream of pain.

They were coming in from all sides, now. There was nothing to do for it but run.

"_Move_," Daryl hissed. His brother pushed himself forward, limping, and they gained a little speed.

And Daryl started weaving through the bodies, directing Merle with his arm. Doing his best to avoid the narrowing press. One grabbed him by the bicep, and he struck back hard with the butt of the handgun. It came at them again, and Merle lurched forward, stamping on its knee with his full weight. Something snapped, and it crumpled to the ground. Daryl caught Merle before he could fall, and they moved clear before it could rise up again.

Twenty feet from the truck, now. It sat there, tall and white and solid. And Daryl sensed a movement that drew his attention—a determined, clear, orderly movement. Not a walker.

At the front of the truck. Someone in a FEMA jacket was rushing for the cab. Was about to drive their safe haven out of dodge.

"_Hey!_" Daryl shouted, waving his free arm, pulling his brother close against his side.

"_Wait!_"

The man didn't hear him over the jumbled noise pressing in all around them. More walkers came around the front of the truck and seized that man before he could open the door. Daryl raised the gun, fired once. He dropped one of the approaching dead, but there were just too damn many to shoot them all off. The man fell to the ground, screaming. And with that, the whole front of the truck was surrounded. There was no chance Daryl could get to the keys—assuming the poor bastard had them to begin with.

He pulled Merle off at a sharp angle—trying to widen the gap between them and that mess. Hoped they wouldn't draw the attention of the feasting dead below. Daryl turned, and balked. There were three more coming right at them—blocking the way to the truck.

Daryl shot at one, one-handed—too fast. Missed.

Three bullets.

Tried again, dropped it. Two.

He shot the other as it lurched close enough to grab Merle's arm.

One.

The final walker snarled in Daryl's face from a yard away. Daryl dropped his brother on the ground. He let out a loud, primal bellow. Then he rushed forward and plowed full into its chest, throwing it against the side of the truck. He struck it with the .44. Again. Again. The black blood splattered against the white metal, and it slid down onto the dirt below.

Daryl rushed back, grabbed Merle. Propped him up against the side of the truck and pushed the .44 into his hand. It was sticky with gore.

"There's just one shot left," Daryl said to him, "Use it if you gotta."

He turned away, calling over his shoulder as he went.

"Be ready when I come for you."

Then Daryl jumped up from the wheel well to grab at the roof. Pulled himself up lightly, rolling over the edge. The sheet metal was cool against his skin.

Then he turned back to get his brother.

* * *

When Merle found him, Daryl was sprawled out on his bed, on his stomach, reading a book. He could see the cover from the door. _Folkways of the Cherokee and South-Eastern Tribes_.

Daryl was lying on his bed reading a _textbook_. There was a call number on the spine. It was from the fucking _library_. He had a fucking _library card_.

"Hey bro," Merle said, leaning in on the molding of Daryl's bedroom doorway. His brother's head darted up at once. He dropped the book—lost his place as it fluttered shut. Tried to hold the page open, a moment too late. The he stared at Merle, tensely.

Merle smiled, and Daryl recoiled from him. Began to get that _look_ on his face. He hated it when Daryl looked at him that way—like he'd brought something into the room that smelled real bad.

It was more than that, really. Merle _resented_ that look. Long had wanted to obliterate it from Daryl's repertoire. And so he relished what followed a bit more than he would have, otherwise.

Merle raised a hand up, beckoning to his brother.

"C'mere a minute."

Daryl was up in an instant and bolted in the other direction. Leapt away from Merle as fast as he could. Tried to jump out the open window on the other side of the room—tried to dart off into the woods. If he made it, he'd hide—find cover like a hunted jack hare. But Merle was fast and he got him by the belt when he was halfway through. Pulled him back in again.

As Merle dragged his brother into the hall, he could hear the sound of their daddy's radio echoing from upstairs. He glanced at the shadows in the stairwell. They stretched long and dark—all the way up to their daddy's half-open door. Who knew how long the old man would stay up there. What he was doing. What he'd be like when he finally came down.

Daryl grabbed the door jamb—struggled. Merle's attention went back to the task at hand, and he tugged him away easily. Daryl was no match for his brother—Merle was still bigger than him by far. He could fold Daryl up like a wet string.

Still, Daryl wriggled and scratched in his grip. Fought like a wild animal trying to get free.

"Lemme _go_!"

Merle just kept pulling him along. Desperate, Daryl tried to bite his brother on the arm, but Merle had him in a chokehold—pulled his head back by the hair. And he spoke to him calmly, as if it was all a matter of course.

"You know how this goes, little brother."

Daryl spat, tried to kick at his brother's knees. Couldn't get any purchase. Merle dragged him along the floor.

"Don't come when you're called, I'm gonna come _for_ your ass."

It was like Merle was some kind of immutable force of nature—and he knew it. He was in his very prime—strong and fast and athletic. There was nothing Daryl could do in that steely grip.

So Merle opened the hall closet and threw him in hard—against the shelves on the back wall. Slammed the door shut before Daryl could right himself. Turned the bolt as his brother beat against the door from the inside.

"Lemme _out_!"

For good measure, Merle pushed a shelf out from the wall and tucked it neatly under the handle. If he managed to break the lock, that'd give Daryl something else to work through before he could get free.

But Merle knew Daryl wouldn't fight for long. He'd give up and wait to be let out again. And that would keep him out of the way as long as Merle needed.

"Lemme _the fuck_ _out_, Merle!"

Merle wiped his hands on his pants as if he was cleaning something off them. Then he headed outside to retrieve that dead dog. As he went, he spoke to the closet door.

"Hang tight, bro," Merle said, "I'll let you out when I'm good and ready."

* * *

Merle waited for Daryl, leaning against the side of the truck—trying to stay upright. The dead were coming for him. He could see them, looming out of the darkness. First, the hands came clearly into sight. Then the faces. Bare, lipless teeth. Clouded eyes. He clung to the .44 with its single shot.

His mind was reeling. He couldn't think. It was just sound and motion and pain. And his brother… _God_. His brother.

His brother.

The shapes crept closer.

_Not like this_, he thought.

_Any way but this way._

His eyesight faded and swam. Then Daryl's voice pierced the darkness.

"Merle!"

He looked up. His brother's face was hanging over him from above, up on the roof of the truck. Daryl stretched out arms towards him.

First, he threw the .44 up into Daryl's waiting hands. Daryl caught it deftly and placed it down on the roof beside him. Then Merle breathed in hard, and felt the sharp pain of his shattered ribs cry out against the pressure. Pushed forward, jumped. Grabbed those outstretched arms.

He pressed his boots against the side of the truck, thrusting upwards. Pain seared through him like fire—from withdrawal or his battered body, he wasn't sure. He tried to pull himself up, and just couldn't. Daryl held him fast, tugged at him—shouted down into his face.

"_C'mon! C'mon, you asshole_!"

Merle grunted, tried to lift himself. He got some purchase, but just as he did, something grabbed his ankles from below, and tugged hard.

His mind lit up with fear.

"_MERLE!_"

Daryl's voice washed over him from above—tinged with raw horror.

And Merle knew what his brother was seeing. Some shadowy silhouette in the darkness beneath them, tugging on Merle's legs. Trying to pull him down into the morass of dead. Merle kicked at the arms below as best he could, but they clung at him tight. The thing tried to pull itself up on him—tried to climb over him and overtake him.

He could see his brother's face. Daryl dropped one of Merle's arms—held him up one-handed. Grabbed the gun from the rooftop, once more. Merle saw him trying to aim in the darkness—squinting. Face shot full through with frustration.

He needed a headshot. If he missed, he'd hit Merle.

And the first peal of thunder growled low, rolling out from the horizon behind him.

* * *

Merle hiked out for hours with that dead dog on his back.

He needed to get way out—as far into the deep woods as possible. Out into the thick-tangled brush where no one else would go. That kid knew these woods like he _lived_ there, and he didn't want Daryl to find this thing when it was half rotted and eaten away by the animals. So Merle pushed his way through the intertwined host of branches that sheltered the hidden places of the forest. He tore up his legs and arms pretty good on the briars as he did it.

Finally, as the sun started its sharp descent under the horizon, he came out on a clearing over a wide ravine. The naked granite crowded with weeds and old leaves, hurtling down and down in a sheer drop to the distant brush on the floor below.

Merle shrugged the burden off his shoulder. Paused a moment over the brink

"So long, Boss."

He tossed the body over the side, and walked away without watching it fall. As he pushed out through the brush again, he was fully prepared to forget about the dog forever.

He hiked back out of the dense woods and into the nighttime air on the roadside. Hitched a ride from a passing truck. Went straight to where his buddies usually spent their evenings, out under the bridge near the railroad tracks.

He finally remembered to let Daryl out of that closet when he got home at sunrise.

* * *

Daryl tightened his grip on his brother's arm. His muscles strained against the weight as he tried to aim, one handed—sprawled awkwardly across the roof of the truck.

There was no point in waiting. He'd hit that dark shape below or he wouldn't. He'd hit Merle or he wouldn't. There was nothing for it but to try.

For a half second, he closed his eyes. Breathed in and gathered his strength. Then he twisted onto his side to get the best possible angle, and pulled the trigger.

From the way the shadow jerked back, he immediately saw that he'd missed the head. He'd only got the shoulder. For a moment, he was sure that all was lost. And in that moment, his mind went cold and numb.

But as it turned out, it didn't matter. The living man grabbing at Merle's legs started screaming in pain, and instantly stopped trying to climb with Merle onto the truck. He let Merle go as he collapsed onto the ground.

An instant later, the shapes around him—the walkers—crowded in and took him.

* * *

Weeks after he'd chucked Boss down into his eternal resting place, Merle took Daryl hunting. The way their daddy had been acting… he felt he should get Daryl out from under his eye for a while. The trip seemed like the best way to keep them both safe and sane for the time being. They'd been out in the deep woods for two days. They could probably manage at least a few more days before they'd have to go back.

And at least for Merle, a few more days were all it would take. Things were happening, for him—he'd made a huge decision. He'd signed up for the Marines. His juvenile record was expunged just a few months earlier, so he could do it. He could start over.

In a week, he'd be gone. Hadn't said a thing about it to anybody, yet. He'd convinced himself that he didn't care what his daddy thought. And he was still muddling through what to tell Daryl.

But, for Merle, things were clearing up—looking better. He'd started feeling a little hopeful about the future.

And lying there on his bedroll in that tent, thinking about it all, he couldn't sleep. He was so excited he couldn't stop going over the whole thing again and again. Imagining what it'd be like. He'd get to prove what he could do. He'd get to see things—go places. And when he got to those places, he _knew_ he'd kick some ass.

And he'd been off the drugs for a while now. That was hard—but, in this time and this place, he'd been completely determined to get the better of it. And he did. Passed the blood test. He was in great shape in just about every respect—went running every day. He was ready. He was _so_ ready.

It was going to be fucking amazing.

In the tent, he heard Daryl shift, an arm's length away at his side. Heard him breathing. The kid wasn't asleep, either. A few minutes later, Daryl spoke up.

"Merle… you awake?"

Merle nodded to the darkness.

"Hmm."

It was all he said. And Daryl stayed quiet for a few minutes before starting up again.

"Boss's been gone for almost a month…"

He rolled over on his side. Faced his brother.

"Where you think he _got_ to?"

Merle shrugged.

"Must've run away, little brother."

A silent moment stretched out between them. A twig snapped somewhere in the woods. Then Daryl responded.

"… you think so?"

Merle smiled.

"Oh, yeah. He's off somewhere screwin' bitches and chasin' squirrels and cutting a fucking swath of fucking destruction in his goddamn wake."

Merle could only see the outline of Daryl's face in the darkness. Couldn't see his expression, but he knew exactly what it looked like. He was leaning there on his arm, head propped up in his hand, just a foot or so away. He was smiling a little smile, seeing those fabricated adventures play out inside his head. Merle couldn't really see it, but he knew.

And it occurred to Merle that when he left next week—headed off for basic—he wouldn't see the kid for a good long while. And all at once, he was overcome with a deep, aching rush of feeling for Daryl. He barely knew what that feeling was—he'd only ever really associated it with his brother. It usually smothered away quietly under the crushing weight of other concerns—just one of the quieter bits of background noise in the chaos that was Merle's life. He didn't question it, or think about it consciously. It just was. It _always_ was, somewhere deep and hidden and secret.

And in the tent, in that moment, he just let it flow over him as they lay there together in the life-filled stillness of the night forest. They listened to the animals rustling here and there outside. Listened to the wind in the branches. Listened to each other breathe. And the thought came to Merle that Daryl was probably waiting for him to say something reassuring. So he repeated himself.

"Yeah Daryl. '_Course_ he ran away."

He thought of next week. Thought of all the things he was about to do. Smiled to himself, again, in the darkness.

"I mean… if you could," Merle said, "Wouldn't you?"

* * *

A dishonorable discharge and the end of the world later, Merle's brother finally hoisted him up onto the top of that truck.

They were lying flat on the roof, together. Side by side. They lay there for hours and hours, still and quiet. Hidden. They couldn't see what was happening below—but they could _hear_. All sorts of voices—becoming more and more distinct as the numbers thinned out.

Screams for help. Screams for help cut short. A woman sobbing. A child. The sound of a car driving away. The interminable groans of the dead.

It was one of the longest nights either of them would ever know.

The predawn gloom slowly moved over the horizon. The sounds of screaming—so clear and crisp in the darkness—had finally started to fade.

Merle turned his head. His brother was watching him—his face stony and unreadable. There was blood splattered in his hair. Across his forehead.

Daryl's hands were pressed against the metal beside him. And in that moment, Merle suppressed a sudden and completely inexplicable urge to reach out for them.

But he spoke.

"Broth—"

He stopped himself. Didn't finish the word. Looked into Daryl's eyes.

"Daryl… I _didn't_."

The sun slowly rose, and the clouds took on a hollow, grey light. The two of them lay there, together, and watched the flashes of lightning striking somewhere in the distance, cutting through the overcast sky.


	9. Return to Earth

_I have returned from the first of a series of travels, and have another chapter for you. This story is starting to shape up to be around fifteen chapters long—so we have a ways to go, yet. I will be back in the land of trains, planes, and automobiles soon enough, so I may be sporadic, still, with the updates for a while. But as always, let me know what you think! And however temporarily, it sure is good to be back!  
_

* * *

_Return to Earth_:

As Daryl lay there, the horrible nighttime sounds finally started to fade away around him.

The morning light swelled low over the horizon, filtering through the steel-grey clouds. The cool, early morning breeze flowed over his face as he stared up into the sky. In the distance, dim, rumbling peals of thunder rolled out long and low. They were quiet, but coming closer.

The roof of the truck was wet with dew.

It was the time of day he loved best, in the midst of his favorite season. And the spring rain was coming—he could smell it in the air. When it arrived, it would be fresh and rich and heavy. It would bring the woods at his daddy's house to its full life—soon the whole forest floor would spill over with growing things, like some kind of large and wild hothouse garden. He could almost smell the soil and feel the tree bark under his hands.

Daryl pushed thoughts of home away.

There were other things to worry about. He needed to plan—prepare for their next move. They couldn't hide forever. And when they made a run for it, they'd have to pass through whatever lay below them. It would be up to Daryl to look out for his brother. He'd taken on that responsibility. So he'd better be ready. Better know what to expect.

He pushed himself up from the roof of the truck—cautious and tense. Ready to drop at the first sign that their cover might be blown.

What he saw below stopped his breath.

Scores of fallen tents—a field of white canvas splattered with blood. And all around them was a mass of tangled, unidentifiable remains. Half-chewed limbs and worse scattered _everywhere_ on the ground. It was impossible to tell how many had died—most of the bodies had been ripped to shreds. The leavings were strewn out randomly on the hardpack, as far as he could see.

And it was all covered in a soft, morning mist. The countless dead wandered in and out of sight—passing through that mist aimlessly, oblivious to everything that surrounded them.

As he watched, a bloody body lying nearby started to stir. One of its arms had been chewed away to the shoulder. It raised itself on its single hand, looked slowly around the ruined camp, and rose. It joined the others. The early light reflected on the pale skin as it disappeared off into the fog.

Looking at all of it, the thought came to him that he should probably feel frightened. But he only felt a dull, heavy sadness. Its crushing weight sank deep into his gut, and lodged there.

* * *

In the early morning on another day, Daryl stood on the asphalt in the middle of the city. He was in front of the hospital where his father had been transferred. And he just standing there, looking at the building with its large, glass front.

Finally, he walked across the hospital parking lot in the early morning air. It was cool on his skin. Everything was quiet. The cars whispered past on the main road, one by one. It was too early for the rush hour traffic. The small birds were singing on the telephone wires. They seemed out of place to Daryl, surrounded by the pavement and cars and tall buildings, here.

He stopped in front of the sliding glass doors. Stood there, completely alone. The day before, for reasons Daryl couldn't remotely fathom, Merle had gone and punched the chief neurologist in the face. So he wasn't allowed on the premises. It was the only way to persuade them not to press charges. So Merle was sitting out on the flatbed of their daddy's truck, by the side of the road, way past the parking lot and across the street. He was as close as he could get without stepping foot on the hospital grounds.

Daryl waited there a moment, numb. Uncertain of whether or not he should really go inside. They could do it without him. He'd signed every piece of their damned paperwork the night before.

He thought about it. He didn't _have_ to. He didn't.

But no.

He knew what his choice was. He'd already made it, unconsciously—without really thinking through why. It was the only way this thing would go.

Daryl breathed in, hard, and stepped forward. The doors glided open. He walked into the hospital, headed for the stairs, and went up to watch his father die.

* * *

Daryl lay back down on the cool metal roof, again. As he did it, Merle let out a small groan. So he turned to look at his brother. Merle didn't realize right away that he was watching him, and so he didn't try to hide what Daryl saw.

Merle… he looked _awful_. His hands were trembling. His breath was unsteady. He was pale and his skin was slick with a feverish sweat. There was something very wrong with him.

And in the growing light, Daryl could see how badly he had beaten his brother. Merle's body was bruised and bloody. His breath was labored and short from the broken ribs. That Daryl had done this thing—shattered Merle's bones while he lay there passive on the ground… it didn't seem real.

But it wasn't just the bruises and broken bones. Merle was sick with something. He had a strong fever, at the very least—that much was obvious. He was lying there, trying to be quiet—clenching his teeth and absorbing the pain into himself. His hands were balled into tight fists.

And Daryl remembered. _Janie_ had a fever, in the days before what happened to her. And a quiet fear started to snake in tight coils through the back of his mind.

Below, something shuffled close by the truck. Moaned as it passed them. The now-familiar groaning echoed up to them. It was one of those _things_. Those terrible, disgusting _things_. He felt a fresh hatred for them growing inside his body—swelling up like the dense storm clouds above.

Merle turned to him. They lay there, face to face, about a foot apart from each other. A roll of thunder echoed out around them.

"Broth—"

Merle cut himself short—didn't finish the word. Daryl felt an unexpected pang.

"Daryl…"

He paused once more.

"I didn't."

Daryl looked into his brother's bruised and bloodied face. He was sick, and weak. His skin had a hollow, drawn sort of paleness. His eyes were circled with dark shadows. His _eyes_—they seemed strangely thoughtful. Even haunted. The night on the roof—everything they had heard—everything that had passed between them… it was as if it had all sunk in as deeply for Merle as it had for Daryl.

And Merle was staring at him, still insisting that he didn't. He wasn't angry, or desperate. He was strangely subdued. Even sad.

But _if _he didn't, Daryl knew it was by chance. If things had been different, he knew that Merle could have. _Would_ have, and never would have cared.

But Daryl nodded to him, very slightly. Paused. In the silence that filled the moment, only the sounds of the dead could be heard. And all at once it came to him that he and Merle might be the only living people left in this place.

Daryl breathed in and out, looking steadily into his brother's battered face.

"Ok," he said, at last.

* * *

Before she shut off life support, the nurse threw the windows open. She was wearing mint green scrubs, and her hair was pulled back in a neat French braid. Others milled in and out, keeping an eye on things. But she was the one who stayed the whole time.

She pulled open the blinds, and a pale light filtered into the room. The sky was overcast and grey. Daryl drifted to the open windows. The air blew in, fresh on his face. It smelled like rain.

He stood there a long time. After a while, he realized she was standing next to him.

"Do you… do you want to say anything? Have some time alone?"

He didn't answer right away—didn't understand. Tried to think of what she thought he should be doing. So he just looked down at his hands a while, and finally murmured to them.

"No."

He could feel her eyes on him as he stood there.

"Ok," she said. She went to his father, hovered over him, working on something. Then she turned to him again.

"This might take longer than you expect. It'll be slow."

He nodded. She waited. He still was by the window. She looked at him. Again, he didn't know what she wanted.

"So if you'll just come over…"

"Oh," he said.

"Right."

He went over to the bedside. She stood by the machines. Did things to them he didn't understand. He noticed she didn't look at most of the switches and knobs as she worked them. She didn't want to see.

He looked down at his father. They'd put little pieces of medical tape on his eyelids to hold them shut. His hands were grey against the white sheet. Still.

Really, he looked dead already.

* * *

Daryl crept along the roof of the truck, moving towards where that FEMA worker had been when he was overpowered—the one who almost drove the truck away.

If there was a key on the body, they might just have a chance.

He lay flat on the truck, looking over the edge. Merle was hunched up behind him, waiting. Looking at him with tired eyes.

On the ground below, some of the body was still there. The bloody jacket. Daryl scanned the mist. There were shapes wandering around in the distance—silhouettes of the walkers that surrounded them on all sides. But they were far enough away—he would probably have time to search the jacket before any of the dead could reach him.

So he slid over the side, and dropped to the ground, lightly. He was vaguely aware of motion all around him—things turning towards him, heading in his direction through the dense, white fog.

He didn't look to see what was coming for him, and went straight to the task at hand.

* * *

The nurse finished whatever she was doing.

"Ok," she said, walking up beside him. She spoke gently.

"Like I said, it'll probably be a while. But I think you'll know when it's happened… people usually do."

Daryl nodded. Didn't look at her. He was staring at his father's hands. Those hands had always been there—_always_. He could feel their iron grip, even now. They seemed eternal—immutable. And yet this was the last time he'd ever see them.

It didn't seem real.

And still, he didn't know what to _do_. What the right thing was. He thought and thought, pushing through the strangeness of it by sheer force of effort. It was as if he were making his way through thick and heavy underbrush, out somewhere dark and remote in the back of the forest.

Slowly, over the long stretch of minutes, his daddy's lips started to lose some of their color.

And Daryl made his choice. Reached out, slowly. With a faltering, uncertain movement, he slid his hand under his father's fingers. Folded the still, cold hand up in his own.

He held that hand, and waited. Watched his daddy's broken body wind itself down.

He could hear the cars rushing along outside. Traffic was picking up. If he went to the window, he would probably see Merle in the distance—far away, sitting on the truckbed, smoking a cigarette.

A noise from behind him drew his attention. He turned, still holding his father's cold hand.

The girl—the nurse. She was crying.

"I'm… I'm sorry," she said, quickly dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She tried to hide her face behind her hand as she did it.

"It's just… my dad died a few months ago, and…"

She trailed off. He looked at her expressionlessly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he found himself a little afraid of her tears. Otherwise, he felt numb and far away.

"It's ok," he said, quietly.

And they stood there, together, and watched. Death came as softly as the breeze flowing through the window, floating over the three of them and fading away.

* * *

After their daddy passed, Daryl walked out of that hospital and never returned. Merle was waiting for him at the truck, and they started the long trip back home. Neither of them talked about it. Merle was at the wheel, and just drove through the rain. Daryl leaned against the door, and watched the windshield wipers moving back and forth, pushing away the thick beads of rain that caught the light and blurred the colors around them.

Back home, they spent the day like any other. Merle stayed in the garage, and worked on something that was wrong with his bike. Daryl listened to the rain on the roof, sitting in his room. In the late afternoon hours, the downpour finally started to taper off. So he went outside—down the road, cutting through the yard of the empty doublewide trailer to get to the woods. He stepped by the realtor's sign in the grass, and headed for the laurel bushes to the side of the building. He pushed through the thick leaves, and they showered him with collected rain.

Without thinking about it, he went straight for the giant, old maple tree—his favorite—and pulled himself up into the branches. Up and up into the highest parts. And he perched up there, like he used to do when he was a little kid.

"Daryl!"

The voice made him freeze. Merle. Down below. He looked to the earth, and saw his brother there, staring up at him, half obscured by the branches and leaves.

"Hey, Daryl! I see you up there!_ C'mon_, man—c'mon down and sit with me!"

Daryl still didn't move. His eyes narrowed, and he stared down at his brother, suspiciously.

And way down below, Merle tilted his head to the side. There was a light chuckle on his breath. And Merle lifted one of the six packs in his hands to show him.

Daryl climbed deftly down into the lower branches, and dropped onto the forest floor.

* * *

Daryl rifled through the bloody clothes, trying to find the keys. They weren't in the pockets. He unzipped the jacket to see if there was anything inside.

He tried not to look at the corpse's head—the skin had been chewed off the face, and there was nothing but a gory mess there.

He could hear something growling, behind him. He could hear footsteps.

Something caught the light, lying in the corpse's hand where it lay on the ground. Something metal. The keys.

As he reached for them, the dead hand wrapped around his own, and tried to pull him forward.

* * *

And so Daryl and Merle went out driving into the cool, spring air together. They laid out in the truck bed, on a blanket, way off in the farmland. The stars had come out and the clouds were gone. A considerable number of empties were scattered around them, and Daryl was pleasantly buzzed.

They counted the constellations. When they were little, they'd both liked that stuff—stuff to navigate the woods at night. And looking up at the stars felt good to them, now. Daryl turned to look at Merle's face. He had an empty on his chest and was smiling up into the sky.

Then Merle tossed it in the air and propositioned Cassiopeia, twinkling down at them from above. She didn't respond.

"Damned bitch," he said, playfully. Daryl laughed.

They fell into a companionable silence for a while, looking up into the night sky. And Merle suddenly turned to Daryl, brow furrowed like he'd been thinking about something long and hard.

"So, brother," he said, leaning his head on his hand.

"Where do you think you _go_... after you die?"

Daryl sat up. Opened another one and took a swig. Merle did the same.

"Well… I think we know where you go, really."

He shrugged.

"Never really got what was so confusin' about it to everyone."

"Well, then please enlighten me, little brother."

Merle sipped on his drink. Sat on the flatbed with his arms propped up on his knees. Daryl didn't say anything. Merle gestured to him.

"Go ahead, Daryl. I—I wanna know."

"We see it in the woods every day," Daryl said, "It's pretty damned obvious, when you think about it…"

He looked out over the dark hills, swelling out and out around them under the nighttime sky.

"You go back into the earth. It made you, and it takes you back."

He nodded to himself.

"That's what happens."

Merle smiled.

"You always been some wild red indian at heart, bro."

"But how about you, Merle?"

Daryl turned right to him, ventured to ask the question.

"You ever thought about this? What you think happens when we go?"

"You don't remember gran at all, I'd bet. You were real little when she passed. Used to watch us in the mornings, sometimes… before what happened with our mama."

Merle rushed through the words, and Daryl shifted uncomfortably. Even now, no one talked about that.

"Gran would read us the creed, every day. I guess… I guess I always just believed what she read us. Much as anythin', anyway."

He raised his drink to the sky.

"Ashes to fucking Ashes, little brother."

Then he put a hand on Daryl's shoulder a moment. Squeezed it.

"Dust to fucking dust."

* * *

Daryl tried to pull away from the walker's grip, scrabbling across the hardpack. The keys dug into his palm as that hand pressed into him—clutching hard as the dead thing pushed forward to grab him.

It pulled at him, and he tugged back. The walker—the bloody mess—leaned forward over him, dripping and snarling. It wouldn't let go.

Everything started to feel very far away. The world was a blur. Time slowed down for Daryl, in that moment. And from all around, the shapes came in from the sides—taking form through the mist and moving closer.

He could hear it in his mind. His brother's voice, way back in that farm field after their daddy passed.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

The other hand grabbed his shoulder, pulled him forward, and he fell on the ground with it. The dirt was slick and wet with God-knows-what, and he couldn't get any purchase. Before he knew it, he was pinned down.

A cold, piercing awareness shot through his body. The smell of the morning air, the sounds all around him. It was all crisp and clear. He tried desperately to get free—kicking at the immovable shape, slick with blood. He tried, but he knew his luck had run out.

An incoherent bellow echoed out around him, and the weight crushing down on him suddenly vanished.

Merle rolled with the walker, and grabbed it hard by the shoulders. Beat its head against the ground. He darted upright, and stomped on the head with his boot, shouting. It stopped moving, and Merle gasped for air, standing above it.

He was unsteady on his feet. His hands were shaking. He stood there, a moment, breathing hard. Then Merle collapsed on the ground, unconscious.


	10. Fly to the East

_Hello, my friends! I am on the opposite coast from where I was when I posted the last chapter. I wrote most of it thousands of feet in the air over Wyoming or South Dakota or what have you. There was a good deal of turbulence, and, when I think about it, some of it may have leached into the story. In any case, enjoy. More later!  
_

* * *

_Fly to the East:_

Merle felt hands under his arms, tugging at him. Then the stabbing pain in his ribs overcame any other thought. Someone was lifting him from the ground. He was swimming in and out of consciousness. Sights and sounds melded together and washed over him in short bursts.

Somehow, he found himself propped against something cold and metal. It was wet with dew. He heard someone fighting something off. The sounds of a struggle, and labored breath—grunts of exertion. Daryl. Merle recognized the rhythm of his breath from long familiarity—just as he'd know Daryl's footfalls on a flight of stairs.

More sounds. Something connecting with flesh. A car door… the _truck_ door. He remembered the truck. His brother threw that door outward at a shape lunging towards them. A heavy impact, then gristle and bone snapping. The thing collapsed at their feet. More dark shapes were approaching behind it.

And then Daryl was taking hold of him—moving him, again. There was the press of his brother's arm. The scent of the sweat in his hair, close against Merle's face. Merle's vision started swimming back into focus. He started to remember where he was, and what was happening. Daryl was dragging him into the cab of the truck. As Daryl laid him down across the seats, a light spray of rain misted softly onto the windshield.

"Storm's comin'," Merle whispered.

Daryl climbed over him. And there were shapes all around the windows. Hands pushing against the glass. Heads looming beyond them, clustering in a circle around the cab. They obscured the light.

The engine turned, and roared to life. The radio blared with loud static—tuned to a station that was no longer broadcasting.

And then they were moving. Merle's stomach lurched and the pain shot through his muscles as his seat shifted beneath them. There were thudding sounds—jolts, shocking up from the wheels to Merle's spine. He was tossed around in his seat. He knew they were plowing over bodies and tents and walkers and bloody dirt.

His stomach cramped. He hunched over himself, and vomited on the carpet.

The truck slid on the wet ground, spun to the side. A crash. Daryl swore under his breath, hands clutched tight on the wheel. When Merle looked up, there were fragments of fencing and concertina wire caught on the windshield wipers.

Something rolled up over the windshield—slammed against the glass for an instant, then vanished. Something else. And again. Limbs, heads, and torsos. The glass cracked, and spiderwebbed over with fault lines. Black, congealed blood mixed with the misty rain, and Daryl set the wipers going against it. It smeared over the damaged glass and made the world a grey, impressionist painting.

Merle's vision started to stabilize just as the side of the truck heaved beneath him. There was a harsh grinding sound. Metal creaking on dirt. The truck started listing to the right. Daryl slammed his hands against the steering wheel and shouted.

"_Fuck_!"

Daryl turned to look at Merle. The truck was still rolling forward. Merle stared at his brother and tried to hold him in focus.

"Tire's blown out—we're on the rims, Merle."

Merle held himself up on the seats. Groaned. Daryl veered hard to the left—headed for the edge of the perimeter, where they'd set up camp.

"Won't get far like this. Gotta go for the bikes."

And they caught the remains of a tent on a side mirror. It fluttered out beside them like some sort of bloody flag of surrender. Merle reached out towards where it brushed against the passenger window. The fabric splayed across the glass as if it was reaching back towards him—straining for his fingers.

* * *

The truck spun out at the side of their collapsed tent. Before the walkers around them could close, Daryl leapt from the cab and bolted for the bikes.

They weren't there.

The dead approached just as the first raindrop landed on Daryl's cheek.

He spun around on the dirt, looked left and right. No sign of the bikes. After all this, they were gone. Daryl let out a shout of frustration. Kicked at their half-collapsed tent.

Wait. The tent. He pulled at the fabric, and they were both there, underneath.

He went for the crossbow, first—its weight welcome and familiar in his hands. Loaded a bolt. Then he rolled on the ground, turned towards the approaching crowd, and fired.

* * *

Merle opened his eyes to see Daryl hovering over him. He made to slap the side of his face, gently. But he was already awake.

"I'm here," he murmured.

Daryl was pulling him forward, one handed. He had the crossbow slung on his shoulder and the .38 in his hand.

"Can you ride?"

"Not leavin' my bike behind. I can do it"

So Daryl pushed the .38 into Merle's hand.

"Stay behind me."

* * *

They made a slow escape, weaving through the carnage—avoiding the clusters of dead that wandered through the camp like ghosts.

As they made it to the edge and moved out into the country, Daryl tried to shut the whole experience out of his mind forever. Told himself he didn't care. Forced that belief into the forefront of his mind and clung to it—ready to fight to maintain that certainty if he had to.

He never saw the basswood cage where it lay out on the hardpack—empty and cracked in half. The jackrabbit was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

The roads beyond the camp were scattered with walkers. The noises throughout the night had drawn them towards the camp from wherever they hid. So the two of them pressed through it all as fast as they could. Daryl took the lead, but found himself constantly looking behind to see if Merle was still able to follow.

They passed over a swelling hill, and on the other side they found a small town center. First, the white steeple crept up over the crest. Then the rest of the old, clapboard church, and the small cemetery beside it—overgrown with weeds.

There were walkers—it seemed like there were _always_ walkers, now. They wandered back and forth between the cemetery stones, and on the town green, standing in clusters around the civil war memorial.

It was starting to rain steadily. He slowed his pace, worried about Merle sliding out on the wet pavement.

Daryl looked into the cemetery as they rode by. The iron gate hung open, probably rusted in place. The green weeds crowded up against that gate, and choked the stone walls. And corpses wandered through it, their clothes falling apart and their hair wet with rain.

And he just felt so tired. They'd barely slept in nearly two days. They'd been fighting for their lives so long he was starting to forget what it was like to rest.

Merle picked up speed behind him—Daryl could hear the engine revving. Came up to his side on the road, and Daryl turned to look at him. Then Merle braked, abruptly. Stopped in place. Hunched over, leaning on the handlebars. The rain collected on his face, making tracks through the dried blood, there. It beaded over the raised bruises and healing scabs.

He just managed to get the kick stand down before falling off the bike and onto the pavement.

* * *

Daryl circled back in an instant, and jumped off the Triumph. Rushed to Merle and leaned over him on the asphalt. Looking left and right, he could see the dead making their way slowly across the green towards them. More came from the path to the cemetery.

He took Merle's arm, and started when Merle yanked it away.

"Get _off_ me," he said. Sharply—as if nothing were wrong—as if they were back home and he was in one of his moods.

Daryl ignored the approaching walkers, and tried again.

Merle wound up and struck Daryl hard on the side of the head. Snarled at him like a wounded animal. Looked up at him with smoldering eyes.

Daryl moved in again, and Merle deflected his approach. Threw a punch—harder than it looked like he could hit, the way he was. It landed on Daryl's jaw and tossed him backwards on the pavement.

"I said get the _fuck_ off me!"

"Merle, I—"

"Just l_eave me be_."

Daryl squinted at him.

"What?—_No_!"

"Daryl," he said, looking up to his brother from the pavement.

His face was pale and drawn. He looked very, very sick—worse than Daryl had ever seen him before. But it was more than that. He sounded angry, but it was skin deep—his eyes were empty. Anything recognizable had drained away. And Daryl didn't understand.

Merle looked up at him steadily. Didn't strike out again. He spoke quietly and deliberately. As if it was an effort to form the words.

"Daryl, please—let me go."

Daryl grabbed him under the shoulder and tried to pull him up, and once more Merle struggled to get away.

"I ain't gonna just _leave you_."

He wracked his brain—flailed for a way to get his brother upright. The dead were getting closer and he didn't have much time. Yet again, that now-familiar panic clenched at his gut. His head was swimming and he was nauseous from sheer exhaustion.

"Is it the bike?" he asked, helplessly.

"I'll—I'll come back for it—I'll come back, I promise… Merle, just come on with me. Take my arm."

"No. I'm out. Lemme be. You go."

Merle closed his eyes. Breathed in hard, and laid his head down against the pavement.

"_Go_, Daryl. Fucking leave me alone."

And it was then Daryl worked up the courage to reach out, again. He laid a hand across Merle's forehead. He was burning up.

His throat tightened and his gut went cold. A fever—_the_ fever. Merle had it.

He leaned in, looked Merle in the face. When he spoke, his voice cracked and he had trouble saying the words.

"Merle… you're _bit_, ain't you?"

He swallowed hard. Left his hand resting there on Merle's forehead. The cold rain fell on his fingers and spilled over them onto his brother's face.

And at that, Merle's whole demeanor changed completely in an instant. He smiled weakly—lips trembling and grey. He reached up into Daryl's hair with one hand.

Daryl tightened, startled. Merle ran his fingers through his hair, then held them there a moment.

"Nah… I ain't bit."

Daryl tried to lift him again, then, and he let him. Leaned heavily into Daryl's body. Murmured into his neck as Daryl dragged him to the Triumph.

"… ain't bit."

Daryl helped him onto the bike and took the front. Merle clung to him from behind.

Daryl spoke over his shoulder before heading out.

"Don't you fucking _dare_ let go of me."

They sped away.

* * *

They headed off into the side streets, out into the far edge of town. Daryl found a rural road, there, canopied full over with ancient oak trees. There was nothing on it—no buildings, no signs of life. It stretched for miles, running alongside a wide creek with willow branches dragging in its current.

The rain grew dense and heavy— coming down so hard he was desperate to stop— to find shelter before he spun out and laid the bike down on top them. Merle's hands clutched his sides tightly, but Daryl wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up his grip.

Then the smell of heavy smoke in the air hit him—it rolled over them in a choking wave before he saw where it came from.

There was a wide swath of grass on a hill by the creek, and on it were the ruins of a large, old house. It was burned to the ground, and the newly charred wood complained and smoldered against the falling rain.

But there was a shed on the property—he could see it, way in the back by the creek. A three-sided shed with a tar-paper roof. He made for it at once. When they got there, he lowered Merle down in one corner. The rain sounded hollow and strange against the roof, and the wooden walls.

He took his bag from the Triumph, and lifted Merle's head to place it beneath him. Merle was shaking hard, now. His skin was clammy, and his face was feverish and covered with sweat. He tried to speak, and couldn't.

Daryl was getting really frightened.

But there was nothing to be done. He just sat by Merle's side, knees tucked under his chin, watching over him helplessly. And they stared out into the rain together. It blurred the world outside the shed—a wet, green mass of shapes and colors.

Daryl kept one hand on the loaded crossbow. Just in case something came at them. He watched nervously for any sign of movement in the distance.

He kept his other hand on Merle's arm. He held him there for hours.

He didn't know what else to do.

* * *

Merle lay there on the cool dirt, listening to the crashing thunder as the night slowly settled in around them. Heavy rain pounded down on the tar-paper roof. He felt like they'd been huddled beneath it forever.

He could feel Daryl's hand on his arm. He'd kept it there all day as they sat, silently, staring out into the rain. Merle didn't pull away because he was feeling so goddamn fucking _sick_. Because he was so tired. Because he was afraid—and really, because it was Daryl.

No one touched Merle like this. Girls, maybe. But they didn't really count. He could hardly remember anything like it. He thought and thought. Tried to remember.

And something came to him. The day before Daryl was born, his mama had been in a rare mood. She was in that upstairs bedroom with the door hanging open, singing to herself softly. She seemed happy. And he could remember the anticipation in the air—the whole house was welling over with giddy energy as they waited and waited for the baby to come.

Usually, his mama was as nervous as a sparrow—startling at the slightest sound. And so he was almost afraid of her. Not like he was with his daddy—she never struck him in the entire stretch of years she spent with them. Not once to that day when she suddenly vanished, never to return.

But it was like you could break her to pieces with a breath. Days went by where she barely spoke a word. She was a silent presence in the house. She'd make breakfasts and lunches and dinners, and smile at him wanly, and drift through the rooms like a ghost.

By the time Daryl was born, he'd stopped trying to find ways get her attention. Even breaking her perfume bottles or tearing out the pages of her Bible did nothing. She had nothing to offer. It was like she wasn't really there.

But that morning, she was happy. Humming to herself, up in her room. He heard her sweet voice from downstairs, where he sat on the ground with his trucks. It drew him in. He rarely went up in that room, but he wanted to hear her better. So he crept up the stairway.

When he got to the top, he could see through her door. She was sitting at her little nightstand. And she saw him standing there, and immediately reached out to him. He stepped forward, cautiously. He wasn't really sure what she was going to do. But when he got up close, she pulled him onto her knee—up into what was left of her lap. He tensed up at the press of her arms, and he was just about to wriggle out of her grip and make for the stairs when she started to sing to him, softly.

_"Little Jimmy Walker, sittin' in a saucer,_  
_Weepin' in the mornin' like a turtle dove"_

She shifted, and her brown hair spilled over his face and down onto his chest—flowing over him in soft waves that smelled like flowers. The ends trailed against her pregnant belly, and he watched them cast little shadows on her dress.

And then he reached out. Laid his hand on her swollen stomach, and felt a sudden movement there. He hadn't expected that. Fascinated by it, he left all thoughts of getting away behind. He let his hand rest on her, there—staring at it lying on the fabric of the dress.

And he let her soft voice wash over him as he felt his brother kick and turn.

_"Rise, Jimmy, Rise—wipe your weepin' eyes_  
_Fly to the east, fly to the west—_  
_Fly to the one that you love the best."_

* * *

The convulsions started in the night.

Daryl clutched at Merle as the spasms tore through his body. The rain hammered down on the shed and the shadows pressed in from the wooded darkness beyond. He had no idea what to do.

He was starting to understand what was happening—that these were withdrawal symptoms from the serious shit Merle had been getting into since prison. But he didn't know how this stuff worked—didn't know what was going to happen, or how he could protect his brother from whatever would come next.

So he just clung to Merle and rode the seizures out at his side. They rose and fell in intensity, like the strength of the storm around them.

In the worst of it, Daryl was reasonably convinced his brother was about to die.

For the moment, everything else was forgotten—the FEMA camp, the walkers, and everything he'd said just the night before. It seemed like centuries had gone by since then—like they'd been in this shed for years. Like there was no one and nowhere and nothing else in the entire world.

Sometime in the darkest hours of the night, during a lull in the seizures, Merle started to get jumpy. Nervous. He was flexing his hands and tapping his feet.

Daryl had been sitting in the same position for hours. His bones ached. So he shifted in place, groaned, and leaned against the rough boards behind him.

And Merle sensed the movement. Darted upright. Seized his arm and tugged at him.

"_Don't leave me_," he whispered.

And Merle let his hand slide down into Daryl's. And Daryl clutched at it, exhausted and overcome. Without thinking, he reached out for the other. Gathered both of them up in his own and pressed them against his chest.

"I ain't gonna leave you."

Daryl dropped close to his brother. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose.

"I ain't gonna… it's you and me, Merle… it's you and me."

He repeated it, again and again, as if saying it could make it true.

Merle settled, slowly, then. Daryl stretched out by his side. Lay there next to him, straining to keep awake. He left the crossbow propped against the wall in easy reach.

And the hours passed, and the rain poured down above them. Merle drifted in and out. And Daryl leaned over him again and again, checking to make sure he was still breathing.

And as the sun rose once more, the sky stayed dark with the pouring rain.


	11. Whitetail God

_So despite the fact I am several thousand miles from home, and have been doing my professional networking and writing nonstop like some kind of demented footnote generator, I still finished this chapter for you a few days earlier than I expected. This makes me feel irrationally pleased with myself. I may start running around my conferences wearing a cape and declaring myself "Super-PhD-Girl." I sure hope that if they take me off somewhere after my display, they'll still let me keep my laptop so I can finish writing the story from my padded cell._

_Not sure when I will update after this—hopefully I can get one more chapter in before the final trip of this academic whirlwind. In classic style, I've saved the best for last— I'll be off to Italy in about a week! The words "can't wait" fail to really encompass my feelings about this. So, my friends, I will see you when I see you. Arrivederci!  
_

* * *

_Whitetail God:_

Pale light filtered through the birch trees as Daryl pushed through the crowded underbrush. He was desperately hunting for a way out of the forest. He'd been lost for days, and he knew for sure no one was looking for him. Merle was in juvie, again—had been for over a month—and he'd be the only one who might conceivably notice.

Before they'd taken Merle away, he told Daryl never to go so far into the woods that he lost sight of his favorite maple tree. That it was easy to lose your bearings and then you'd be in real trouble. And he'd really meant to do it, but he got distracted by the rich greenery and the way it just rolled on and on, promising more and more just over the next clearing. It was all so beautiful and fresh and _good_—he couldn't stay away.

The forest was nothing like the dead-end road beyond it. It was another universe. He could hardly comprehend how the two existed side-by-side, the way they did.

But as the ninth morning rose over his desperate search for a way out, he was starting to get really scared. He was hungry and tired, and his clothes were torn. His legs were scraped up from the briars, and he was covered in itching welts from the black flies. He'd given himself a terrible rash trying to wipe with something poisonous, and he was sunburned full over his arms and face. His back ached from sleeping out on the open ground.

He kept on walking, aimlessly, unsure what direction was the right one. Drank from a little stream and splashed some water on his face, then pressed on, again.

How big _was_ this woods, anyway? Did it just go on forever beyond that dead end road? It was _like_ it never ended… like there was nothing but woods in the entire world. Trees loomed large over him, as if the place had swallowed him whole.

Maybe he was walking in circles. He didn't know—wasn't even sure how to find out. All he knew was how much trouble he was in. If he didn't figure out where he was soon… he had no idea what was going to happen.

He was afraid, and he felt tears welling up in his eyes. Swallowed hard, pushed them down again—hid them, as if Merle was there to see it and make fun of him.

He spotted a sharp incline—a steep drop in a hill, cut through by erosion. Maybe he would be able to see a path from the top. So he headed for it, climbed the sharp slope, pulling on exposed roots to get up there. The earth against his hands smelled like thick, rich clay.

But when he got to the top, he saw nothing. Nothing but that green, wild beauty that pulled him into woods to begin with. It twisted at his heart. Once again, his eyes misted over with tears, and he automatically forced them back out of long habit. Didn't realize he'd done it at all as he stared down into the forest from where he stood.

* * *

Merle lay on the dirt floor of the shed, his head limply pressed against Daryl's bag. The early morning light was darkened by the pouring rain, and everything outside was a mottled, blurred green. He could smell the dampness in the grass, soaked in deep and permeating everything with a wet haze.

He hadn't been able to sleep at all. He was deeply, desperately, hopelessly tired, but he just _couldn't_. It was like he'd forgotten how.

His body was in full-scale revolt, and Merle was furious with it. Wanted to rip his way out of himself and escape. His skin was too tight. His bones were creaking with a throbbing pain. His muscles shook in hard spasms and he felt like he couldn't get enough air. His stomach was empty, but he was racked with piercing cramps. Dry heaves wrenched hard at his gut and sent shock waves through his core. Every breath pressed against his broken ribs with a dull, bruising ache that seemed like it would never go away.

But Daryl was still and silent. Lying on the ground next to him, head resting on one arm—lost in a very deep sleep. He'd tried to stay awake to keep watch, but Merle didn't shake him when he noticed he'd slipped under. With everything he'd done for them both in the past day—without a moment to stop and breathe—there was simply no way he'd be able to keep it up any longer. Better to let him rest.

And so now, lying there, Daryl was far, far away. His breath was steady and smooth. Merle listened to it, and watched over him, turning away periodically to scan the horizon for any signs of movement.

And sitting over his brother, the pain didn't matter so much, somehow. Watching him kept his mind away from the worst of it, at least.

Yet Merle wasn't at peace. Not by far. He was surrounded on all sides by a strange foreboding of loss. And he stared at Daryl for hours, as if he was trying to memorize his face.

The noon sun came and went as he did it. The rain poured on monotonously around him. And he lay there on the dirt, and wondered where Daryl's mind wandered while he slept. What sort of strange, interior landscapes populated his dreams.

And Merle reached out to his brother. Brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead with the tips of his fingers. He didn't know why.

* * *

Daryl was very far away, indeed.

He was up on that slope in the woods, looking at the thick press of greenery beyond the landrise. And _there_—up ahead. A thinning of the trees. The morning light poured through them there more brightly than anywhere else. He moved towards it, hushed—bursting with hope. Willing with all his might that it was the treeline at the edge of the forest. Telling himself he'd be out on the road in no time.

He pushed through the bushes—covered full over with white, wild roses that looked familiar to him from somewhere. He forced his way through, moving faster as the light got brighter. He was almost out.

When he stepped into the small clearing, it took him a moment to fully register his mistake. There was nothing beyond it but more woods. It was just wide enough to let in the light.

He sank down on a fallen log. Tucked his knees under his chin and buried his face in his arms. Breathed hard, trying to calm himself. He sat there a long time. And finally, when he looked up at last, he realized he wasn't alone.

There was a whitetail fawn lying in the grass.

He forgot about escape. Leaned forward, completely engrossed by the animal curled up in front of him—soft and delicate against the soil. Its pretty coat with the white spots shone in the sun—each hair highlighted by the light in different shades of auburn red and brown.

He peered over at it, shyly, nervous he'd scare it away. It didn't move. He stood, stepped closer. And then he was right beside it. Nothing.

It was dead.

He dropped onto his knees beside it on the ground. And he couldn't control himself anymore, and started to cry. The tears just welled out of him and before he knew it he was sobbing there on the dirt. He knew he'd never find his way out—never. It was all over. He might as well curl up in the grass next to that little body and wait to die himself.

He was still enough of a child to long for comfort— a sharp, painful, unrealized longing that always tore at his heart. Some days its claws were slow at their work, and the pain was dull and raw. But other days they seized him full on and he was crushed in their agonizing grip—days when his daddy and brother were at their worst, and the very idea of walking home from school filled him with fear.

That hopeless, aimless desire had followed him everywhere—always—ever since he could remember, stabbing at him with a stark, poignant awareness of his own loneliness.

That pain was so real to him he could almost see it. A shadowy, sharp-toothed monster on four legs, snarling at him from the shadows at the corner of his eye.

And as he knelt there, the gentle wind brushed against the little fawn's coat. The soft, whispy hair at its ears stirred against the breeze. He thought of stroking its fur, but it was probably cold and he didn't want to remember it that way. Snot and tears ran down his face and he wiped at them, uselessly.

The world was so unkind to little things.

And in that moment, there was a noise at the other end of the clearing. His head darted up. There was a whitetail doe, looking at them both, solemnly. Its mama, come back for it, staring into the clearing with her large, dark, lovely eyes.

And he was angry, then. It wasn't fair—it wasn't _right _that the fawn was dead. He wanted to fight against that hard reality. Wanted to hit something—find whatever was responsible and break it to bits. Wanted to tackle death itself and rip it to shreds with his teeth.

Just put the monster before him, and he'd face it down.

Soft clouds blew over the sky, and formless shadows rolled on the grass—over the wild, white roses with their delicate petals and yellow centers. Over the fawn's speckled fur. He looked at it, angry, sad—stricken.

And all the fight went out of him in an instant. It drained out and left him feeling thin and empty and grey. He was ready, then, to give up completely. Let the light inside him die forever.

But in that very moment, the fawn opened its eyes.

His breath caught in his throat, and he froze in place, kneeling there on the grass.

It was alive_._

Its mama stepped forward, lightly, and the fawn lifted its slender head from the ground. Leapt up on its impossibly thin, spindled legs, and moved to follow her out of the clearing.

And in his mind, there was no question. It had been dead, and then it was alive again.

No one had been there to teach him religion—the grandmother who'd taught Merle was long dead. And he barely remembered his mama at all. He could just vaguely envision her Bible and its rumpled pages. They'd been ripped out, somehow, and then carefully taped back in order against the spine.

But that day, his own ideas started taking root in the untilled, fallow regions of his mind.

He would learn the woods. Everything about it—the plants, the animals. Every turn and root and swelling hill. He would read it like scripture, and make it his. That tired, sagging house on that godforsaken dead-end road wouldn't be his home anymore—not really.

He'd make his own home.

And he followed in the whitetail doe's path, cutting through the woods in the direction she'd bolted. And she led him straight for the main road—as if she'd come to find him and show him the way.

Stepping out onto the asphalt, he wasn't so afraid of the woods anymore. And as he walked down the street, heading for the house, he discovered he wasn't so afraid of the dead-end road.

And everything he'd hoped for and promised to himself that morning—it all happened just as he imagined. Before he knew it, he'd learned to track and hunt and navigate by the sun and stars. He took it all up with an easy speed, as if he were born to the task. Soon he was wandering the woods for whole days at a stretch. And back at the house, he read everything he could about the native tribes—their ways and skills and stories. And those stories… in them, the woods were full of magic. Peopled by spirits and ghosts and demons. And part of him—the real part, buried down deep and completely untouched by cynicism—the part inside that was most truly _him_ believed every single word.

And so the woods became the sole friend of his lonely childhood. He grew with it, and through it—grew tall and strong and fit within its shelter. And it sharpened his mind at the same time. Tracking its animals and exploring its depths quickened his wits—honed his keen natural intellect to a razor edge.

It was the only lover he'd ever known, and the closest thing he had to a god.

But most of all, he _believed_ in it. That was the important thing—he'd found somewhere to place his faith. He had something to love and cherish that would always give back.

He took up that unwavering belief like a shield against the shadowy monster that always stalked him—that painful longing with its ragged claws. It preserved all that was good in him—sheltering him from the worst effects of the cruelty out in the world beyond the trees.

* * *

Daryl's mind wandered through that forest and beyond it. And that first night in the shed, the chupacabra stalked his dreams.

As the hours stretched on, the thread of those dreams became vague and abstract—a string of images without form or reason. Mud puddles shot through with rain. The bare bones of a tree in winter. The screen door at his daddy's house.

He was somewhere dark and sheltered, listening to screams from outside. A girl's hands held a white sheet that was bathed in sunlight and shadow. And at the same time, there was the monotonous pounding press of torrential rainfall beating down from all sides.

And he was clinging to his brother's arm, where it dangled over the side of the truck. Fired down at the thing pulling at Merle. Shot that man, and it was too late to take it back.

There was blood, and the sounds of bones cracking under flesh, and windchimes ringing in the sun.

The girl's hands, the pleading cries for help. The windchimes. They blurred together and tore at him like teeth.

And the beast had him, then. It grabbed his arm and shook.

It knew his name.

The screams still echoed in his ears when his eyes shot open. Filtered, grey light flowed all around him. The rain was pouring down on all sides, and he remembered where he was.

Merle was leaning over him.

"_Daryl!_" he hissed, one hand gripped tightly on Daryl's arm. He pointed into the distance.

Five figures were approaching from the trees.

* * *

The walkers had clearly been a family, once. The three children had their mother's red hair.

They died together, somewhere, and then wandered in a cluster through the trees.

Daryl raised the crossbow, staring out from the shed at their approach. Waited for them to get close—wanted to get good, clear shots, considering the driving rain.

There were two girls. They were about ten and thirteen, and there was an older boy. He looked more like his father, Daryl thought, in the instant before he fired.

The boy fell to the ground.

He loaded another bolt, methodically. The rain poured down outside. He moved quickly and calmly, without thinking. Shot down the two girls before he knew it.

The mother was almost on him, then—stepping around the wall of the shed towards him where he'd been crouching down. He pulled his hunting knife and closed with her, pushing her away into the open air.

She snarled, moved forward at him, arms outstretched. He ducked lightly beneath them and sprang at her from the side. She just had time to turn her face towards him before he drove the knife point home.

He stood in the rain, breathing hard. Heard a determined grunt from his side, and turned.

Merle was on top of the last walker—the father. Had him tackled on the ground and was beating in his skull with a rock. He hit it again and again and again. It was already long dead, and he just kept striking.

Daryl stepped up to his side. Saw the splattered remains of the skull on the dirt. Placed a hand lightly on Merle's shoulder.

"C'mon, Merle."

Merle was breathing hard, and Daryl could feel his trembling muscles under his hand.

"It's done," he said, softly.

His brother drooped then, grey and tired. Daryl helped him up, and led him back inside the shed

* * *

After settling his brother in, Daryl went to collect water—found a fisherman's bucket by the creek. Filled it to the top. He did it as quickly as he could—barely registered the landscape around him with its trailing willows and wide, rippling waterway. Leaving Merle alone made him nervous.

So he went back to his brother, then. He wanted to wash Merle's wounds.

When he reached the shed, Daryl went straight for his bag, and pulled out the cleanest shirt—the flannel he'd brought in hopes they'd make it to winter. He tore off the arms first, and ripped up the rest into strips. While Daryl shredded the shirt, Merle tried to undress. Couldn't handle the buttons with his cold and shaking hands—now slick and spattered with the walker's blood and brains.

So Daryl knelt down beside him, and unbuttoned his shirt, quietly. Stripped his brother naked there under the shelter of the tar-paper roof.

He didn't know how Merle would react to this—being washed like a child. But he seemed to accept it, patiently. Tensed a bit, but took it. Let Daryl work to clean out his wounds.

Daryl dipped a small, mess kit pan into the water, then poured it over his brother's upturned face. Took a wet piece of flannel and ran it across the spatters of blood and grime. Passed it over his cheeks, forehead, and closed eyes. Wiped everything away from his bruised skin, softly—trying not to hurt him any further while he did it.

He looked down, gathered more water.

"Shouldn't have gone and let me fall asleep like that," he murmured, without thinking. He'd been absorbed in the task and the words just fell out.

And he knew instantly that it was the wrong thing to say. It set Merle off. He stiffened, then snorted angrily. Pushed away. Spat words at him with sharp exasperation.

"I still got _eyes_, Daryl."

And that anger compounded on itself in an instant, and Merle looked like he was about to strike out. It was just too much to ask him to take, being babied like this. He saw Merle's fist ball up tight at his side. He was ready to go, and Daryl braced for the punch.

It never came.

Daryl sat there, silent with complete surprise as Merle checked himself. Breathed in, settled down. Deliberately unclenched his fist and started over.

"Don't gotta worry. I—I was up."

He paused, looked down. Daryl waited, curious about what Merle would do next. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

"I was keepin' watch—lookin' out for you. You needed to sleep."

And so he went back to his work, and Merle patiently allowed him to do it. Daryl poured the water over his brother's chest and arms. Slowly worked at the wounds, cleaning away everything caked on top of them. His torso was the worst. Daryl could see the imprints of his own boots on his brother's sides. He ran the cloth over them as gently as he could, but he could hear Merle's breath grow sharper as he pressed over the deep, angry bruises.

As he continued to work on them, Daryl looked away at the ground.

Time passed. He moved on to Merle's shaking hands—dipped them in the water, then scrubbed at them with a fresh strip of cloth. He was carefully loosening the dirt and blood out from under Merle's fingernails when he spoke.

"Daryl…?"

He switched from the right hand to the left. Didn't look up to answer.

"Yeah, Merle?"

Merle paused. As if he weren't sure if he should continue.

"Were you really gonna _go_?"

Daryl looked up, then.

"I mean… from home… before all this?"

He moved to Merle's collar bone and shoulders. Didn't answer right away. The sound of the water dripping off the wet cloth echoed up to him as he drew it from the bucket. And the rain just kept pouring down outside.

"Yeah," he said, at last, softly.

Daryl looked up from his work once more, caught Merle's eye an instant before looking back down. His gaze fell on those bruises on Merle's ribs, again.

"Yeah. I was."

Silence again, and falling rain. He ran the cloth down his brother's back. The water traced along his spine, and the patterns of scars across the skin. That was something they had in common.

And Merle asked a question, with a quiet voice.

"Where… where were you gonna head off to?"

Daryl shrugged.

"Not sure, really. Thought of lots of different places."

His brother was quiet. Waited for him to elaborate. It was strange seeing him so passive. He poured the water over Merle's head and tried to clean the clots of blood from his close-cropped hair. Spoke while he did it.

"Knew I wanted to head east first, and see the ocean. Wanted to stand on the beach. Watch the tides change."

Smiled to himself, slightly, thinking of what that would have been like. Standing in the sun by the rolling waves.

He moved to Merle's side, lowered the washcloth.

"… I never seen nothin' like that, you know?"

Merle nodded, silent.

And sitting there, it struck Daryl that Merle hadn't called him "brother" since that night at the camp. Was probably under the impression that Daryl didn't want him to. And he didn't know what to say. How to talk to him. Or even what he wanted to happen if he did.

But he felt strangely sick over it, as he washed out the cloth, dirtying the water with the congealed blood.

He looked down into that bucket, there at his side. The water was muddy, brown, and clouded.

Once you got something in it, you'd never get it clear again.

* * *

Days passed by in a hazy blur. Fits of rain were separated by damp, humid, misty hours where the sun strained bleakly through the clouds.

They'd barely eaten—everything was running out. They only had half their things at the shed to begin with—the rest were left behind on Merle's bike. They had very little food, and were almost completely out of ammunition. Daryl was down to his last few arrows, without the things to even _try_ to make any more.

And he couldn't leave to go scouting, hunt, or retrieve the bike. The seizures had ebbed away, but Merle still wouldn't be able to take on more than one or two walkers alone.

Whenever Daryl tried to feed Merle anything, he just couldn't hold it down. By this point he'd visibly lost some weight. His face looked thinner—hollowed out. And his eyes had a strange weariness to them—a kind of gravity they'd never had before.

In a lull in the rain, the crows came for the bodies of the dead family outside. Fluttered onto the roof of the shed, and scattered around on the grass below.

Daryl had dragged them all to the side, but hadn't been able to burn them or do anything significant to mask the rot. The smell had been getting worse. He had a vague hope it would shield them from the other walkers' attention—but that cloying, close smell of death had started permeating everything around them. It was like you never got used to it.

Merle sat and watched the crows flying back and forth. One of them darted across the grass, past the shed. It had a gold watch in its black beak, torn from the mother's wrist. The narrow chain swung back and forth in the air, wet with rain.

"Gonna feed the birds," he murmured, softly. Half to his brother, half to himself. And Daryl didn't entirely understand what he meant.

"What's that, Merle?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. But Merle didn't answer. He was staring into the yard, watching the birds feasting on the dead. He didn't seem to notice Daryl had even asked the question—he was far, far away.

He had things on his mind.

* * *

A week after they'd reached the shed, the last of the rain trailed off in the night. The early sun was soft and warm and lovely on the grass beyond their shelter. Daryl woke in the early light, and stared up at a spider working on a web in the corner. The silk was wet with dew and reflected the gentle sun in sparkling strings of silver.

"Did you bring it?"

Daryl turned, surprised by his brother's voice.

Merle was up, and looked a little better today. His tremors had faded, and it looked like the savage fever was finally beginning to break.

"Bring what?"

Merle shrugged, looked down.

"You know…"

Daryl waited. Wasn't sure where this was going.

"The _book_."

And Merle looked up at him then.

"The one with the rabbits."

He meant _Watership Down_. Daryl didn't realize Merle knew that he'd kept it—or even that he'd spent those long summer afternoons reading it as a child, curled up on a rock in the woods. But Daryl went to his bag, pulled it out and handed it over. It was a little damp from where the rain had gotten in.

And Merle spent the entire morning buried in its pages, sprawled out on a patch of grass, reading in the sun.


	12. Ocean

_We're moving deep into Daryl's mind in this chapter—half of it is largely a running monologue of his thoughts. All week, I've spent my free hours in the evenings writing little bits of this—wandering around inside his head. I must say I've enjoyed the scenery. Maybe it's the beautiful spring weather here at home getting the better of me, but Daryl's mind has been full to overflowing with greenery, open air, and sunlight._

_I'm getting sad already that this fic is reaching the final chapters—I don't really want to say goodbye. There will be fifteen, total. Three more to go after this._

_But an idea has already come to me for a (very) loose continuation—a different focus entirely, but set in the same universe after season two. The best way I can describe it at this early point is that it will be a vaguely Caryl-ish, Rick-heavy murder mystery set in the depths of a hard winter. If anyone's keen to have ideas bounced off of them, I'm thinking in a short while I'll be primed and ready for some fic-planning-raquetball. _

_Just as well that I run with this thing now, I think—I should spill out all the ideas I've got in this vein before I get jossed in October!  
_

* * *

_Ocean:_

That whole week in the shed, Daryl had trouble sleeping. The ground was hard and he'd been pretty much constantly preoccupied with Merle. He woke up over and over again to search the dark for the walkers. Dead certain each time that he'd let his guard down too long.

And whenever he really slipped under—really slept—he was haunted by strange dreams.

They were wound through with incoherent snatches of memory, replayed again and again—twisted and warped in on themselves. Distorted, so they never ended quite the same way twice.

He was in the high school library, after the final bell. He'd been called in by the librarian—that nice old lady whose name he'd forgotten. She was talking to him about some sort of test scores. Saying all kinds of things about Pell grants. Scholarships. Asked what kind of colleges he was considering. She talked and talked, and he stared intently at the floor. Nodded down at it awkwardly until she finally stopped and let him go. She sat in that chair on the other side of her desk and watched him rush out through the main doors, and away. She may as well have been sitting on the other side of a chasm.

He left, and never looked back.

* * *

As Daryl rode Merle's bike out from the town center, he relished the wind on his face. It rushed over him like water—spilling cool and fresh over his bare arms. The early sunlight bathed the roadway with a warm, golden glow.

After sitting still for so long in that shed—watching over Merle's slow recovery and listening to the driving rain for days and days—the sensation of pure _flight_ overwhelmed him. It rolled over his body in waves. He breathed it in like the fresh, clean air.

It was as if he'd been stuck in place for years, and now he'd been set free.

* * *

He chased his dogs around in the farm fields. Threw the ball for them in the cold, January wind. And the memory collapsed in on itself, and now he was helping Merle up from the floor. He'd been so high on something that he'd fallen down a flight of stairs. Rolled home laughing, threw open the front door. Collapsed there, covered in his own blood.

Daryl had him in the bathroom, then—held a cloth to his brother's split forehead. Staunched the bleeding. It seemed like it would never stop.

And he was looking out the window with a familiar sense of dread. Yet another Crown Victoria was pulling in the driveway, lights flashing. They cast strange colors on the walls—across his face. Flowed over the bare tree branches against the evening sky.

For a moment, the world was blue and red.

* * *

He'd walked out for the bike just before dawn— moved silently through the empty spaces hidden behind the vacant streets. He listened to the world come awake with the light. As he reached the town center, the birds started to sing around him.

He could smell jasmine vines, spilling out of the untended flower gardens and running wild over the lawns.

He took nothing but his hunting knife, his bag, and his crossbow, with its few remaining arrows. Left Merle with the .38. The one remaining magazine and the last ten rounds.

He slipped through backyards and alleyways. Moved carefully—quietly—aware of everything around him. A sparrow's nest in a rain gutter. A tire swing on a tree. Insects hovering in the open air. Light on the pavement, with clutches of weeds nodding up from the cracks. The early morning shadows on the asphalt stretched out long. The outlines of trees and buildings. The distant silhouettes of the dead, where they wandered through the main street beyond.

He killed the only two walkers he found in the back alleys—quickly and easily, with his hunting knife. He didn't use the crossbow at all. Didn't need to. Nothing noticed him. He was light on his feet from long years of practice—moved soundlessly without any effort. And when he reached that town green, and the church with its overrun cemetery, he'd been able to creep around to the bike from the back of a storefront. He headed for it swiftly and silently, and rode off before any of the dead were able to fully register that he'd been there at all.

And now, gliding through the silent morning… everything in the past seemed like a distant prologue to this strange, new life—to the impossible, mystifying disaster that had made the dead rise up and hunt them.

And yet it was like everything before had converged to prepare him to _thrive_ in this life. The whole world was a giant, empty, wild forest now. It was his to explore.

The forest—_his_ forest, behind his daddy's house, and what it meant to him—that was the one piece of home he would carry with him, wherever he went. And as he rode away from town—into the remote roadways, canopied with trees—he felt he might just be able to leave the rest behind.

* * *

And over and over, in his dreams, he was trying to shoot Janie Reed—though she was called Janie Tucker, now, since she went and got married. But she wasn't really Reed or Tucker or anything, anymore. She was _dead_, and somehow she was still moving—trying to kill him. She was on top of him—grappling with him for his life. He shot her through the head as saliva and blood dripped down onto him from her teeth.

* * *

He turned the corner onto that rural road, with its oaks and willows and the wide creek. It was strange to ride Merle's bike. He'd never been on the thing alone, before.

He'd ridden on the back, of course. Watched Merle work on it over the years with a single-minded, passionate devotion that bordered on something like love.

But until that morning, Daryl never once put his hands on the bars.

Merle showed that bike more care and attention than anything else in his entire life. He'd kick the family dogs and then get upset when they hid from him. He'd beat on Daryl one day and then whine and wheedle and complain so he'd go out drinking with him the next.

But the bike—that was easy for him.

He kept it meticulously clean. He tuned it up regularly. Kept the finish at a spit shine. The black body was rich and deep, even after all those years. Daryl would sit there, back when he was barely a teenager, and stare into the paintjob as if it was a deep pool of water. And the shining surface would reflect his eyes back to him where he sat.

Daryl hugged a curve in the road, following the bends of the creek beside it. And as he wove his way through sunlight and shadow, something came to him.

All at once, Daryl consciously realized that _this_ bike—Merle's bike—was a Triumph Bonneville. He'd always known it, of course… but what that _meant_ didn't really hit him full on until that moment.

Without thinking about it all, he'd chosen the same make and model for himself. When he'd struck out to find his own ride, he went straight for it.

Merle had worked on his Triumph—customized it over the course of years. So it was very different in the particulars. But at heart… it was the same. Daryl was amazed it hadn't come to him before—wondered why Merle hadn't said anything. Nearly three weeks had gone by since they'd gone to the Thompson garage, and Daryl just didn't think of it.

Must not have wanted to.

As he rode on—as the winding streets carried him away—he put it all aside. Just let it be. The sun was warm in his hair, the air cool on his face. The ride was smooth, and he felt like he could just go gliding on and on and on forever.

* * *

Most often, in his dreams, his mind went back to the pleading screams for help. Even in the other moments, he could hear them—in the high school library. Propping Merle up in the bathroom, his blood running into the sink from a gash on his skull. The baby birds when he was five years old. The sound was there—leaching in through the cracks.

Some part of his mind clung to those sounds and wouldn't let go. It was like he was still on the roof of that truck. Like he'd never leave.

The voices would crowd all around him, pressing in close—there were so damn _many_ of them. Sometimes, he could almost hear them when he was awake.

And there were the screams outside the Thompson garage. He could have done something there. Didn't. They fell together with all the others—women and children at that camp, when he was totally powerless to do anything at all.

And when he woke that morning and went out for Merle's bike, he could hear them in his head even after he opened his eyes. He sat up in the predawn darkness, and his very first conscious thought was that the little boy—Lucas—was dead.

Daryl was sure of it. Some of those screams must have come from him.

* * *

He continued down the rural road. The sun filtered through the trees, casting rolling patterns on the pavement as the branches moved. The wind in the leaves sounded like rushing waves.

The shed came into view. He pulled up onto the grass, and parked next to the second Triumph. Moved to pull the food he'd gathered out of his bag—wanted to show it to Merle right away. He'd slipped into a small, country store on his way into town. Took some canned peaches, because he knew that Merle liked them. Some other basics. And instant coffee—grabbed in a burst of optimism that things had dried out enough, and he'd be able to start a fire.

"Hey Merle," he said, turning around the wall of the shed.

Merle wasn't there. The shed was empty.

"… Merle?"

He looked to the sides. Around the back.

"_Merle?_"

Nothing.

Merle was gone—run off somewhere and vanished completely.

"_Merle!_"

He backed away from the shed—didn't think to scan for tracks on the damp ground. He headed up on the hill to look over the whole area—to hunt for a sign of his brother.

When he got up on the swell of the hill, Daryl saw him immediately. He was perched up on the ancient, fieldstone foundation of that burned out house. Standing on a high part where it converged with a stone wall, near the chimney.

He was standing there, still and silent, staring down into the wreckage.

So Daryl went over to stand next to him. Pulled himself up over the stones and onto the rise. The debris smelled strongly of smoke, even after the weeklong rains.

Merle didn't look at him when he came up to his side. Daryl could see that he had _Watership Down_ tucked away in his back pocket.

Finally, Merle spoke.

"High time we got outta here, Daryl."

Merle didn't look away from the tangled mess of blackened wood and debris as he said it. Just kept on staring into the pit below. His wounds were fading—the marks on his face were scabbed over, surrounded with faintly yellow, healing bruises.

"What's next?" Daryl asked, thinking of that wide, open space that stretched out in all directions—thousands and thousands of miles of unexplored ground. Roads and highways snaking all around the country, top to bottom.

"Where—where we gonna _go_?"

Merle breathed in, tilted his face to the side.

"Well… figured we might head east."

He finally looked at Daryl. Hesitated. Then continued.

"Go see the ocean..."

* * *

To reach the coast, they would have to take the highway around the outskirts of Atlanta. They restocked their supplies on the way, bit by bit. And before they knew it—by nightfall—they were fully armed, ready, and approaching the city outskirts.

With the bikes, they were able to blow through the traffic snarls. Emergency vehicles with abandoned tents clustered around them. Piles of bodies—some laid out in neat rows, covered in sheets. Others left out where they fell. Walkers scattered here and there—but in nowhere near the numbers that would cause any trouble.

They just flew by.

The sun was just starting to dip to the horizon when the city skyline rose up before them. The buildings were silhouetted darkly against the brightly colored sky—rich, deep blues with a hint of gold along the edges of the clouds.

They just kept on moving. Avoided the city, aimed to circle the outskirts on the freeways. The space around them grew more and more empty as they moved. There were no walkers—fewer abandoned cars. No sign of anything moving—not even birds. Except for the sound of the bikes, it was very, very quiet.

Merle was the first to see it, and realize why. He braked hard, and swung the bike around. He looked out over the mouth of the yawning chasm.

He whispered to himself, hushed.

"Holy _shit_…"

The overpass ahead was blown out—black and charred. The smell of smoke was still thick in the air. And beyond it… devastation. Blackness. Collapsed buildings. Smoldering wreckage and burned out streets.

Scorched earth.

"They bombed it out," Daryl said, "It's… _gone_."

Merle looked out at it in a sort of dim shock. He stared down from the overpass into that charred mess—that dark void of nothing—just as he had earlier in the morning, at the burned out foundation.

"Let's get the fuck outta here," he said.

* * *

And so things hadn't gone as planned.

It was getting dark. Soon they wouldn't be able to see the dead in the long shadows. They needed to find shelter. So they backtracked, took an exit onto one of the streets at the edge of town, hoping it was passable. They crouched over their map by the guardrail, together. According to that, it was their best bet to get out of dodge fast. They'd move through it as quickly as they could—try to reach the countryside beyond. They'd break into some rural house to spend the night.

Standing at the end of the ramp, Merle looked out with the binoculars. The sky was shot through with color. There were streaking trails of orange, red, and gold as the sun went down.

Below them stretched out a wide, divided roadway with large storefronts on either side. Dark, unlit billboards rose up from the pavement like trees.

And there were walkers. Hundreds of walkers, clustered tightly together—mostly on the western edge.

"Daryl…"

Merle lowered the binoculars. Shook his head.

"It's overrun, man…"

Daryl took the binoculars from Merle and stared into the morass for a long time. Minutes went by. Then he turned to Merle. It was obvious from his face that he had a plan.

"We ride over on the left lane—that'll keep 'em on the other side of the guardrails from us. We go fast. We can reach the next onramp before they come at us. Loop onto the other side of the next highway—away from that burned out shit up ahead."

He bent down, stared over the map again. Nodded to himself.

"Should be able to go 'round it all by that route."

"You think so?"

"Better than wandering the side streets in the dark, calling whatever's out there towards us. We're goddamned sitting ducks here, Merle—we _gotta_ get out. This is the way."

"It's a risk."

Daryl's lip pulled up in an uneven smirk.

"_Everything's_ a risk."

Merle smiled back. Nodded.

"Fuckin' A, Daryl."

And Merle chuckled to himself, as if it was funny. Somehow, it was infectious, and Daryl started in right along with him. They laughed together, quietly, in the growing dark.

And Merle shrugged.

"Alright."

He climbed back on his bike. Spoke over his shoulder.

"I'm with you."

* * *

And Daryl was right—they had plenty of space to pass through. They flew along the left lane, snaking around stray cars stuck in the road, noses pointed towards them. They could see the shapes of rotting bodies in some of those cars. Deployed airbags. Shattered glass.

The walkers moved towards them, but always aimed at where they were—not where they were going to be. They were always too late by far. It took them ages to climb over the median guardrails, and by then, Merle and Daryl would be long out of reach.

A body hanging halfway out of a windshield caught Merle's eye. Its arm dangled over the metal. The gnarled, withered fingers caught the glow of his headlight. He could see them twisting against the open air—flexing—trying to pull themselves free in the darkness.

* * *

They were almost at the ramp, now—almost out. The intersection came closer and closer—and then they were one left turn from escape. It was the most dangerous spot where the path was unobstructed, and the dead could reach them from the other side with relative ease.

They reached it. The streetlights dangled there, with black and useless lenses—dark, empty holes like dead eyes.

As Merle looked up at them in that moment, a scream pierced through the gloom. Cut through the darkness—sharp and bright and piercing.

A woman's scream.

Merle brushed the sound away. Pushed forward, looping to the left, at the lip of the onramp. They were almost out.

But something was wrong. The sound of Daryl's bike was too far back—no longer at his side.

A cold wave washed over Merle as he realized Daryl had stopped short.

He looped around, and saw his brother staring into the crowd of walkers clustering all over the road—forming a thick wall of bodies between them and the faceless storefronts beyond. Some had turned to Daryl—headed their way. Others were heading towards one of the parking lots, and the sounds of those screams.

Merle stopped at Daryl's side. The screaming rang out again, and Daryl put his bike in gear. Merle just had time to grab his arm. He stared into his brother's face. In that moment, he thought of every argument against what he knew was about to happen.

She wasn't one of them. It wasn't worth it. There were far, far, _far_ too many. It was hopeless—_pointless_. Suicide.

"Daryl..."

He choked out the word, grabbing at his brother's arm. It was all he managed to say.

Daryl looked at him a moment, steadily. When he spoke, the words were almost gentle—as if he understood, and sympathized, and was sorry to find himself in a place where he had to say them.

"No, Merle."

Shook his head.

"No."

And Daryl sped into the thick of the crowd, then—blowing through as fast as he could. The dead closed around his path, swallowing him up. Merle watched him go, stunned. Frozen in place as he lost sight of his brother completely. The space where he'd been standing was empty. Merle's hand still hovered where Daryl's arm had been just moments before. In an instant, it was like he'd never been there at all.

The dead swelled around the street like a wave, moving in on the space where his brother had darted through. In seconds—before Merle could react, there was no way to get past them—no way he could follow.

Daryl was on his own.

And the screams pierced through the swelling night. The girl's voice. And Merle hated her without knowing who she was or what was happening to her. Hated that voice with burning, hopeless desperation. The goddamned bitch with her high-pitched screams.

They sounded like death.

He could hear the growl of Daryl's engine fading away. Then it disappeared and there was nothing at all.

* * *

_I've got the next (and ante-penultimate) chapter partially written. I do believe working on it might be a nice way to spend the plane ride to Italy next week. So you may just get something while I'm there. If not, when I'm back. Hang tight! Thanks so much, friends!_


	13. Glass Wall

_I have noticed that the more busy I am, the more volume I seem to be able to roll out... it's like some sort of weird paradox. I guess all the nervous energy from piles of work and packing and freaking the hell out in the Munich airport while trying to find my connection just need some kind of an outlet. And so here you go—the third-to-last chapter, far earlier than anticipated, as is getting to be my habit. _

_One last thing—if you figured out what's happening here ahead of time, I will totally give you a virtual kewpie doll. Thanks!_

* * *

_Glass Wall:_

Daryl tore through a parking lot in front of what was once a grocery store. The bodies of the walkers flew by him as he sped by, then vanished into the darkness. And then he could see a wide bank of glass windows spanning across the storefront. They caught the fading light, reflected the shapes of the dead moving all around him.

The screams grew louder. She came into view.

Her long, blonde hair stood out against the darkness. She was grappling with a walker, her hands crossed in front of her face, defensively—braced against the pavement—sneakers dug in hard. It was pushing forward at her, hands wrapped tight around her wrists. She pushed back—held it off for the moment. But more were coming closer.

By the time he reached her, she had seconds left.

He swung the bike to the side, braked and leapt off. Pulled the .44 from his belt, went straight up to that first walker, and fired directly into its brain.

It slumped to the pavement and the girl almost went down with it—its grip was tight, and it dropped fast, throwing its weight onto her wrists. She pulled away before she could fall, and looked around in sheer confusion. She didn't see him immediately. Didn't assemble what had happened—how she was suddenly free. To her, it must have been like he'd come out of absolutely nowhere.

Then she swung around and they were face to face. Her eyes met his a moment before he turned towards the first of the walkers advancing on them.

He shot one down. Two. Three. The rest were further behind. A vast, impenetrable wall of dead—a mass of countless shapes lurching forward as one. Easily as many as had reached the FEMA camp, or more. They moved towards the two of them from the parking lot—from the streets. Daryl couldn't see much but the outline of their bodies. The faces were obscured in the long shadows.

Night was setting in.

He turned back to her, made to lead her to the Triumph and take her the hell out of there. But as he went for it, he balked. Doubled back. The bike was already overrun—surrounded by the dark shapes, closing in around it—swallowing it like a wave.

There was no way back to the bike. He gave up on it in an instant. It was lost.

The girl was at his shoulder, then, breathing hard. They backed up, together, towards the glass windows. The dead advanced, forming a semicircle around them and tightening in for the kill. There was no way to get through. They were like rabbits in a snare.

"C'mon," Daryl said to her, and she looked at him with wide eyes. Nodded. Followed him as he backed against the glass. And he had time to register her face, then. With the night shadows all around her, she looked very, very young. Might be some high school kid.

She was slight and small—like a little bird. It was clear she was completely unarmed. He had no idea how she'd survived this long.

He raised the .44. Aimed at a pane in that wall of glass.

"Stand back," he said.

She stood back. Looked behind, over her shoulder— staring into the press of dead. At the straining, outstretched arms—now yards away.

He fired twice. A glass pane shattered. He kicked in the remaining pieces and then the two of them slipped into the black space beyond.

* * *

Shards of glass cracked beneath their shoes as they rushed into the close shadows of the grocery. The air was thick with decay—each breath he pulled in was stagnant—full of rot. The humid, hot air cleaved to his skin—along with the putrid stench of rotting produce, meat, and dairy. He could hear the girl gagging into her arm as she followed at his side.

The light from the sky outside illuminated the closest end-caps. The shapes of boxes and cans stood out against the shadows. Beyond that, the deep aisles fell off into a blank void. He rushed to the far wall, away from that broken window pane. The dead would register their direction and start moving through it in seconds.

"You know how to shoot?" he asked. Considered giving her the .44 and using the crossbow.

But she shook her head. A strand of hair caught across her nose as she did it. And she spoke for the first time.

"No."

With how much she probably weighed, firing the .44 would toss her backwards, anyway. He gave up on the idea.

"Stay close," he said, "Don't got time for no window shopping."

He didn't look at her—kept his eyes on the middle distance. Reached into his bag, backing away further towards the aisles, watching the first shapes starting to push through the hole in the shattered window. He could hear her following at his side.

He pulled out the box of new bullets, and started to reload. But he was doing too much at once—scanning the store for movement, keeping an ear tuned to where the girl was, and looking periodically towards that broken window pane, where the arms were just starting to stretch through.

He lost control of the box and suddenly the rounds scattered all over the floor, rolling away in every direction.

"_Shit!"_

He dropped to the linoleum. Started loading from whatever he could grab.

At the corner of his eye, he could see the shapes of the dead outside, pushing close against the wall of glass. Countless hands pressed flat on the windows, palms first. There were heads behind them—dimly illuminated by the remains of the sun. More and more shapes behind that first row. All of them leaning in.

The window frames creaked—straining against the weight.

He got six rounds in the revolver. Left the rest where they lay.

The panes started to splinter across the entire storefront. The fissures flowered out in patterns that looked like spiderwebs. The girl was looking at those faultlines as they spread over the glass. He could hear her unsteady breath— hushed and trembling with fear.

He leapt up, looked in her face. She looked back, frozen.

And the windows all gave out at once. Shattered down onto the floor in whole sheets. An instant later, the wind from outside rushed in on their faces. The groans of the dead echoed over them in a wave.

The mob surged forward. Spilled in endlessly, throwing the remaining shards out of their way as they came. Cutting their arms, and still pressing on—pushing into the checkout lines, heads darting around—eyes flashing in the dim light. Searching for the two of them in the dark shadows further on.

He grabbed her arm.

"_Run_."

They ducked into the nearest aisle and bolted deep into the black space beyond.

* * *

Time slowed down and darkness fell like a heavy blanket over everything around them. Daryl could barely see press of the aisles with their dusty shelves—the shapes of bottles and boxes sitting uselessly on top of them. As they moved further in, the vague contours of the shelves were almost entirely consumed by blackness.

The girl stopped short at a noise—gasped. He could hear it, too. Could register some movement in front of them. There were a cluster of walkers—strays that had been in the store before this started. He stood in the center of the aisle, aimed as a head came in view, and took out the first one. Threw one out of the way before it could close on them. Sent it sprawling. Pushed forward, and shot at another. He was almost at the back of the store, now—the girl close behind. A fourth walker lurched up from the side, in the shadows, and grabbed at his free arm. He yanked it close, pressed the gun against its head and fired.

He darted around the corner into the back of the store, blindly. Something lurched out of the shadows there. And it had him by both arms.

It jerked his body forward, and the .44 went off in his hand. The round went up into the ceiling.

Everything began to speed up, again. Back here, it was pitch black. All he could see was the dim shine of the white teeth in that lipless, grinning mouth. It pushed in. Got him at a bad angle—had all the leverage.

He didn't have time to assemble any coherent thoughts. They came at him in bursts.

_Too close. Too fast. Too late._

It moved to sink its teeth into his neck—and instead it flew backwards into an end-cap full of wine bottles. It fell hard into the shelves with a loud crash.

The girl stood over the thing, a magnum champagne bottle clutched tightly in both hands. She shrieked at it, and sent the bottle down again. Again. Her yellow hair scattered all around her shoulders—pale so it reflected the scant light.

Blood and wine mingled together—spilled out in a film across the floor. The smell floated up at them both—cutting sharply through the rest of the reeking decay.

She looked at him where he stood, and then moved forward into the darkness—took the lead. She called to him over her shoulder.

"Got to find the loading dock—we should be able to get out the back."

* * *

The aisle shelves started coming unbolted as the walkers pushed through them—crashing down on each other under the sheer press of the dead. They fell in a steady rhythm, one on another on another like dominoes. There was shattering glass. And through it all, the throttled, growling shapes came closer. The mass of them swam and shifted in the darkness, crawling over the wreckage, blocking out the dim light of the night sky outside.

From a collapsed mass of shelving, an arm reached out for the girl's ankle.

"_HEY!"_

He saw it from behind, shouted the warning as it seized her. She fell.

She kicked at it as it sank its teeth into the sole of her shoe. His heart lurched in his chest as he closed the space between them. Thought of Janie.

_Not again—not again. Not again._

She kicked over and over at the mouth, and the teeth started to splinter and shatter against her shoe. She screamed at the face below her—desperate and hard and brutal. Determined.

_She has something to live for._

The thought floated up as he closed with the thing, pushed the barrel of the .44 against its skull and fired.

It slumped over, and she wrenched her ankle free.

He reached for her.

"You bit?" he asked, hauling her up by the arm. She was out of breath, choked on the words.

"Don't—don't think so…"

They were off and running before she was fully upright.

He half-dragged her forward with him as they heard the groaning sounds echoing close all around. The dead were creeping around the back corners, and over the shelves. They were almost on top of them.

And out of nowhere the girl veered to the left—tugging him along with her towards an indentation in the back wall. In the darkness, they'd almost gone clear past the swinging doors—the words _Employees Only_ were stenciled across them, stark red against the white paint. Even in the night, the words stood out clearly.

They pushed in, and those doors fluttered behind them in the close press of the rotten air.

* * *

The dead were nearly at their heels. But for an instant, as they pushed into the stockroom, it seemed like they were alone in the darkness.

They rushed into the center of the wide, black space. In a far corner, there were a cluster of more dead, crowded over an unidentifiable mass of blood and guts—crouched on the floor, digging into that pile with methodical, slow determination. The girl let out a throttled, disgusted groan.

And the heads rose in their direction. They ran.

A few got too close. He fired into the press. And he had just one round left—but there wasn't much for it. He fired at the small crowd again—caught one in the knee. It lost its balance, tumbled over, and knocked the ones behind it down in a sprawling pile.

He tucked the now-useless .44 in his belt as they pushed on.

And further back, they could hear the stockroom doors rocking open and closed with the steady press of dead, coming in at them from behind.

They could see the way out—at last. There were double doors at the side of the loading bays. Small windows on the bays doors let in a dim light. As Daryl and the girl flew by, that light caught an advertising backdrop leaning against some crates. A still, wide ocean—waves frozen in place. A blue sky.

Daryl looked past the backdrop, and scanned the darkness—trying to find anything that could block the way through behind them. The girl read his mind.

"Here!" she shouted, darting towards an unopened crate, grabbing something from the top. Handing it over. A crowbar.

He pushed at the doors and they flew open. Fresh air surged over their faces as they both rushed out full-tilt onto the asphalt.

He turned and wedged the crowbar between the door handles. As he did it, she stepped forward—looked out into the wide swath of pavement behind the store. Gasped.

"Oh, God_—no_…"

He turned, then, too—but he knew what he would see beforehand.

More dead—another mob, surrounding the back of the store. He grabbed her arm, again—wheeled around to pull her back inside the stockroom. But in that instant, the double doors pushed forward at them with the press of dead within—shook with the impact of the bodies. The handles gave just a little against the crowbar. Grey, blood-caked hands started creeping through the gap, reaching out for them.

He spun around again to face the second front. The countless dead had them completely surrounded. They were closing in.

He rolled his crossbow from his shoulder and held it ready. Tried to take aim—took a bead on one, then another. But there was no way.

There were just too goddamned _many_—he couldn't punch a hole through them. There wasn't nearly enough time, or nearly enough arrows.

He lowered the crossbow. Kicked at the ground. Shouted to the air in angry frustration.

Then he turned, and caught the girl's eye. Didn't say anything—just shook his head. No.

She exhaled hard. Looked up at him with wide, wet eyes.

And in that moment, the thought occurred to him that she looked an awful lot like Janie. His friend. The first walker he'd ever killed.

And so in those last seconds—while his mind started to drift away, detaching from the scene around them—he felt that it made a strange sort of sense that it would end like this. In a way that recalled something of how it began. He stared into her face where she stood, close beside him.

A tear ran down her cheek as she looked back.

* * *

As he waited for death to take them, he heard his brother's voice, shouting desperately through the wall of dead.

"_DARYL!_"

Somehow, Merle had made it through the crowds, and figured out where they'd be. He was somewhere out beyond the press of bodies, screaming Daryl's name.

And he was firing into the crowd, then. Daryl could hear the reports of the .38. Merle was trying desperately to draw them off. But there were too many to take on.

"_DARYL!"_

The crowd shifted, and for just a moment, Daryl could see Merle's stricken face. And Merle lurched forward—as if he was about to throw himself into the crowd in a desperate bid to draw them away.

Then their eyes met through the mass of bodies. Merle froze. They just stared at each other—wordless, helpless. It lasted seconds, but in Daryl's mind, it seemed much longer.

Then the dead shifted once more, and Merle disappeared. His voice echoed in the night.

"_DARYL!—DARYL!"_

In-between his brother's shouts and the groans of the dead, he could hear the girl's breath beside him. Could hear it shaking with quiet tears. And she reached out to him. Slipped her hand into his. Without thinking, he wrapped his fingers around hers in return. Squeezed once. Started to let go, and she pulled his hand back—clung to him.

And they stood there, together, waiting.

In those last moments, he thought about the sheer strangeness of life—even at the end. He was going to die in the darkness—in the city—ripped to pieces by dead things' teeth. All while holding a girl's hand.

The sound of an engine broke through the crowd, and the bodies of the dead flew to the sides. Sprawled outward, breaking on the ground in every direction.

An old Jeep Cherokee spun in through the walkers—sent them sprawling under the wheels and over the hood. He was vaguely aware of its tired, yellow paint as it rammed its way through the press of dead. It wheeled around fast. The brake lights glowed at them in the darkness.

Someone threw the hatch open—a blonde woman with her hair pulled back. She leaned out and shouted desperately into the night.

"_AMY!_"

The girl gasped—turned in the direction of the voice. The front doors opened, and two men leaned out with rifles in their hands. Fired into the cluster of dead that remained between them. Daryl dropped to the pavement to avoid the spray, tugging the girl—Amy—down with him.

And then there was a path. She darted forward. He stood up, and watched her rush away towards the jeep.

She stopped, turned back. Grabbed his arm. Pulled at it.

"Come _on_!"

Amy led him along, and he numbly followed. Somehow, he hadn't realized she expected him to come with her.

She pulled him into the jeep. Before he could even register how many people were inside, the doors slammed shut and wheels lurched forward.

And they were on the move—heading out and away into the darkness.

* * *

_I figured there was only one person who could possibly be screaming for help, there—there was simply too much symmetry in the equation to pass it up. And so this is how we reach the final stage of this story. Things are about to change a great deal for our boys. I am rather sorry to do it to them, really—and sorry to say goodbye to them both, however temporarily—at least until I can plan out the next fic and get it rolling. But there are two more chapters, and a lot of interesting things to explore while we work through them. Thanks for coming along with me this far—I do hope you'll stick it out to the bitter (bittersweet?) end._


	14. Amy

_Hello! Despite all the travel, I've got the next-to-last chapter ready for you. When I get home, I'll be working on the final chapter and we will have to say goodbye, sadly, for the moment. I hope you enjoy this—it was fun to start introducing the other characters and getting to try them out a bit. They are all so rich in their own ways, and I really look forward to writing more in this universe so I can get to know them better.  
_

* * *

_Amy:_

Amy flew across the seats and into the other woman's arms. They clung together like their lives depended on it.

"_Amy_," the woman murmured, face crumpling. She was clutching her close— pulling Amy's head into her neck. One hand in her hair, the other crushing her against her body. They were both in tears.

"Oh God— thank _God_, Amy."

They were sisters. It was obvious.

Amy burst into heavy sobs—trying to speak through them while pressing herself against her sister.

"Andrea—I'm _sorry_…

She just kept saying it for what seemed like forever.

"I'm _sorry_—I'm _sorry_—I got—got separated so fast, and I had to run and there were so _many_."

Andrea took her face in both hands, pressing her fingers along her cheeks, her palms encircling Amy's jaw.

"You are _never_ going on a run again, Amy, do you hear me?"

Amy nodded, wordless—tears running down her flushed cheeks and over Andrea's fingers. And Andrea let out a small whimper then—trying uselessly to hold something in. Totally overcome, she pulled Amy close once more.

Daryl watched it all, frozen. He was sitting right next to them on the seat, but his mind was a thousand miles away. He could barely process what had happened.

He hadn't been killed, and he was surrounded by strangers.

He stared at the two girls while they cried in each other's arms, cleaved together with a desperate kind of love.

The jeep moved on.

It was like he'd fallen headfirst into another world.

* * *

He'd been in that jeep for less than two minutes, but he didn't know how long it had been or where he was. They turned onto some side street—away from the press of dead. The man at the wheel seemed to know the route—had probably gone on supply runs in this area before.

The man in the passenger side front turned around, then—a black man, with his rifle carefully pointed towards the window. He knew how to handle his weapon—used the proper safety techniques. Just like Merle had taught Daryl to do when he was a kid.

_Merle_.

"So Amy," the man said, leaning on his seat with one arm. He was looking straight into Daryl's eyes.

"Who's your friend?"

And then _everyone_ was looking at him. Amy, Andrea—that man. Even the driver was peering at him through the rearview. He could see a pair of dark eyes reflected in it.

As he started to come back to himself, his mind immediately lit up with panic about his brother. They needed to go back and get him.

He struggled to find his voice.

"Merle," he said. It sounded raspy and thin in his own ears.

He tried again.

"_Merle_…"

The man stretched his arm over the seat, and offered him his hand.

"Well, Merle, I—"

"No," Daryl said, cutting him off.

"My _brother_—my brother—Merle. He's back there."

He pushed forward in his seat.

"We have to go back for my brother."

Everyone stared at him, silent. He couldn't think of anything else to say, so he just said it again.

"We have to go _back_."

The driver spoke up, staring off into the distance past the windshield.

"We got a total clusterfuck back there."

He shook his head.

"Lucky we found a clear path as it _is_."

They snaked around the dark side road. The driver turned a sharp right onto another house-lined, empty street. Didn't look in the rearview while he kept talking.

"_If_ we go back, we need to think things through first."

"Don't got _time_ for that," Daryl said, "We gotta go back _now_."

His grip tightened on the crossbow. In another instant, he might forget himself and raise it on them.

Amy interrupted.

"Shane."

She pushed forward on her seat—leaned on the front headrests. Her tangled hair spilled all over as she did it. Part of it brushed the side of Daryl's face, and he recoiled. Pressed himself closer against the door.

"Shane—do it. _Go back for his brother."_

Amy's sister grabbed at her arms—pulled her to her side in the backseat. She looked stunned, like she had no idea what to say.

Shane slammed his hand against the wheel.

"_Really?_ _You_ got an opinion here?"

"Why we even _bring_ you? You get yourself out in the open like that, and you should fucking thank your lucky stars there was _anyone_ out there to hear you screamin'. And if not, what then?—Andrea gotta see that? I gotta go back and explain that to _Dale_? Sorry, man, she got _ate_?"

He ranted at the windshield, and never looked back. Just kept on driving.

"It's like I said _before_. You know how to handle yourself or you stay the fuck _home_."

"_Shut up_, Shane," Andrea spat out from the backseat, "Leave her alone."

He came back at her. Told her not to tell him what to fucking do. Andrea raised her voice, Amy broke in, and in an instant Shane and the two girls were all talking over each other in a tangle.

Any other day, Daryl might think the man had just made some pretty good points. But he was diverting their attention away from Merle. And he was doing it on _purpose_—Daryl was sure of it. He wanted enough time to go by to make it impossible for them to go back into the thick of things.

That was enough.

He snarled, lunged forward in his seat, tried to grab the driver—Shane—ready to punch and strike and tear at him until he turned the jeep around.

But in that instant, that black man up front whistled with his fingers—piercing through all the noise in the jeep. He'd been so goddamned quiet everyone had forgotten he was there.

Daryl froze in place, hands halfway to Shane's neck.

"Wait—everyone. Just _wait_."

He waved his hand—drew their attention. And Daryl realized that the whole time everyone else was fighting, he'd been checking the rearview mirrors.

"There's a guy on a bike _right behind us_—didn't anyone notice the _lights_?"

Daryl turned. Saw the bike. Looked back at the man, who raised one eyebrow.

"_That_ your Merle?"

"Yeah," Daryl said, letting out a long breath.

Amy settled against the seat, again, leaning her head on her sister's shoulder. Daryl turned to watch the bike move through the night. Its lights glowed against the darkness.

"Yeah. That's him."

* * *

The jeep pulled into the quarry as night fully settled in. They'd explained to him about the layout of the camp on the way—and he saw it was a lot like they described. There were people scattered all over. Children—families. Tents. An RV. Little clusters of campfires.

The two girls got out, still wrapped up in each other's arms, and a handful of people came up to the pair of them. They started tearfully explaining why they were so late getting back. Daryl could hear the murmur of Amy's voice in the background as Merle walked up from the bike to his side.

Merle didn't say anything—didn't even smile. Any of the considerable number of people watching them would have thought he seemed cold. He just stood there in front of his brother.

But Daryl could see it in his eyes—without any outward sign, he knew how very pleased Merle was to see him in one piece.

Daryl stood there with Merle. Didn't touch him—just nodded, once. Looked him in the eye as he spoke.

"Big brother."

Merle's face changed, at that. His mouth twitched. His eyes lit up with that little gleam they sometimes had.

And he responded as if nothing whatsoever had ever gone wrong.

"That new girl of yours seems kinda high maintenance, bro."

Then he clapped Daryl hard on the arm and walked away.

* * *

The first night in camp, they didn't bother to start their own fire. Instead, they sat with some of the others. Amy saw them there, and led Andrea over to sit next to Daryl. The girls settled in just to his left. Beyond them, there was an older man who introduced himself as Dale. T-Dog, as he said he liked to be called, was directly across from Daryl, arms propped up on his knees. Shane sat beyond that, with a dark haired woman and a little boy at his side.

They talked about what they knew about what happened. How little anyone had heard, or understood. How impossible it seemed that they'd ever find out _why_.

And everyone got quiet then. Sat and listened to the night sounds.

"It's such a strange world," Amy said, looking steadily into the fire. It glowed on her face in warm oranges and yellows.

The dark haired woman next to Shane finished her thought.

"With what's been happening lately… it really makes you wonder what else is creeping around out there..."

And for the first time that night, Daryl spoke up.

"Ain't just _now_. The world was _always_ like this. We just didn't wanna see it."

He looked at them over the fire. Could hear the burning wood crackling in the flames.

"The woods is full of stuff you wouldn't believe."

"Like what?" Amy asked, leaning forward, looking at him from the side, her hands tucked under her chin. Her sister had her arm around her. Hadn't really let her go all night.

Daryl looked to her, sitting right there at his side.

"You ever hear 'bout the chupacabra?"

"Oh Daryl," Merle interjected, shaking his head, "_Don't_ tell her that story."

Daryl looked at him, a little put off. He was feeling kind of charged up after what had happened. For once, people seemed downright happy to see him—for once, he'd managed to do something good.

So he wanted a chance to tell them about how strange things really were out there. Wanted to test this whole weird, new thing out. People wanted to hear him say something. It was hard for him to really believe it.

Merle caught the look on his face, and kept up that protest.

"Brother—seriously," he said, affably.

"Shut the fuck up."

That earned him a glare from the dark-haired mother across the way. Merle snorted at her, and rolled his eyes.

Dale interjected, then.

"No, no," he said, smiling—waving one hand in the air.

"Daryl's the hero of the hour—or that's what everyone's been saying all night. I think it's only fitting we hear some tales of his former exploits."

He shrugged, gave that easy smile again.

"If you ask me."

And so Merle leaned back a bit where he sat, and tuned out for the duration.

No one said anything. So Dale turned towards Daryl, and nodded his head.

"Go ahead, son."

"Well, one time, in the woods… I saw one."

"Saw one what?" Andrea asked, slowly. There was a sly little smile on her face that Daryl didn't understand.

"A chupacabra… what else?"

The little boy spoke up then.

"What's a chupa…?"

"_Chupacabra_—It's a demon."

"They live in the woods, and the deserts. Look like dogs, but bigger 'n meaner… and they suck your blood."

"You spend enough time out deep, you're gonna see things."

Shane murmured something about seeing things. Daryl just pressed on.

"I was out deep when I saw it. Squirrel huntin'."

"You eat _squirrels_?" the little boy asked, scrunching up his face.

"_Gross_."

His mother shushed him. Covered her mouth with one hand as she did it. She was smiling.

Daryl started to feel his throat tightening. He looked over the fire at them all—angry and defiant.

"What we're gonna start getting damned skeptical _now_? With what we all seen out there? I'm tellin' you I _saw_ it. Face to face."

"It was _there_. Snarlin' at me with those sharp teeth."

"The way it looked at me… ain't no geek out there _half_ so dangerous as that thing."

And someone let out a little snort, and couldn't hold it in. And then everyone was laughing.

_Amy_ was laughing, just a little, under her breath. She covered her face with one hand. She'd gone and decided to sit right next to him, so it wasn't like she could hide it.

The only one who didn't was Merle, sitting silently there next to him—he'd been quieter than usual by far that night.

And Daryl was stunned.

He didn't say another word that night. When he thought no one would notice, he slipped back to where he and Merle had planned to set up their camp, and stayed there.

* * *

He went out hunting the next day at dawn. Brought back what he killed and gave every bit of it to the others. They seemed to like squirrels just _fine_, now—now that the wild stuff he hunted was the only fresh meat to be had.

And over those first few days, he spent as much time as possible keeping busy any way he could think of—cutting wood, scouting the area. Picking out the edible plants and keeping track of where they grew.

Anything to stay away from the group.

And if there was nothing else to do, he'd search for signs of walkers. He came up with nothing—there hadn't been a trace of one since they'd arrived. It was quiet here at the quarry. For the moment, the place seemed safe, as far as the dead were concerned.

But he was still so unsettled—so rattled by the close press of people. They'd walk by, looking at him and Merle and their little camp off at the edge of the group. And he'd look back at them—long and cold and hard. Tried to stare them down and keep them away.

And the days started going by quickly—one after another. Time passed, and he was still so scared of them all.

And while he never really got used to the camp, the camp slowly started to get used to him. And some of them—not everyone—but _some_ of them started to talk to him. Here and there. He started learning their names. Getting a sense of what sort of people they were.

Daryl never held any pretensions to being very smart, but he _did_ know he was good at reading faces. So he made it a bit of a hobby, now—used it as a way to tolerate being with such a big group.

The first one who really spoke to him was Lori Grimes. It happened when he brought her some game one morning. She smiled, took the bundle, and put it down with the pots and pans and cans of vegetables. She thanked him.

And then, out of the blue, she offered to cut his hair.

"C'mon," she said, hands on her hips, "Pretty soon, you're not gonna be able to see through that stuff."

He stared at her. She stared back, her lips pressed tight, but slightly turned up. She crossed her thin arms front of her, and tilted her head.

"You'll start running into trees."

And she kept staring at him—enough to make him pretty uncomfortable. He wondered how much worse than usual he actually looked.

Even so, he desperately did _not_ want her to cut his hair. But before he knew it, she somehow had him in a folding chair with a towel around his neck. Started doing something to him with a comb and scissors.

And while she trimmed away, she rattled on and on at him about her herb garden back home. Where the plants were. What kinds. What she'd make with them. How well they froze in ziplocks for later. What the best ingredients were for fucking pesto.

He was trying to wrap his mind around that last one when she interrupted herself.

"Stop _moving_—you're worse than _Carl_," she said, a chuckle under her breath. He didn't realize he was fidgeting. She stood back a moment, looked him over.

"Hmm. Could be better. But at least I didn't take your ear off."

And she went back to things. Talked and talked, and it gave him a chance to really read her—looking at her surreptitiously, from the side. The thing that struck him most was this sense of taught energy all around her—a concerted sense of _effort_. She was clearly trying as hard as she possibly could—trying to hold everything together for her kid.

And there was something more, underneath that. She was nervous, brittle—_strained_. Just talked and talked about that garden, as if it were a smokescreen to hide what she was really thinking.

And as she leaned over to work on the bits of hair plastered to his forehead by the morning sun, he noticed the wedding ring on a chain around her neck. Thick and wide—a man's ring.

There were stories behind that.

And he thought about it while he sat there—started untangling the threads of those stories. The little boy—Carl. And Shane, who seemed to spend most of his free time with that kid.

By the time she brushed the stray hairs from his shoulders and declared him fit to be seen, Daryl had pieced the entire thing together.

And he felt a little sorry for her, then. Made a quiet resolution to keep whatever he'd figured out to himself.

* * *

The next one who came up to him was that timid, quiet housewife—Carol. The one with the close-cropped, greying hair. She walked up to his morning campfire, all shyness and quiet.

The moment he first looked at her, he knew what kind of life she had. He'd grown up in that world, and he could sense it all over her like a bad smell.

And she stood there in front of him, her hands fidgeting against the handles of a laundry basket. It was full of other people's dirty clothes. She'd been making the rounds. And she offered to wash _his_ clothes, then, her voice low and mild as she did it.

And then she watched him expectantly. Silent. Just looking up at him with her soft, doe eyes.

Stupefied at the idea, he declined. But he spoke more gently than he'd meant to when he did it.

* * *

Another morning, Carl Grimes burst up to him, full of energy. He clearly wanted something. You could always tell with little kids—when they wanted stuff.

And sure enough, without even saying hello, he started right into the request.

"Can I shoot the crossbow?"

He jumped up on a nearby rock. Leapt down again. Looked at Daryl eagerly.

"_Can I?"_

And at the look on his face—overbrimming with hopeful expectation, Daryl wanted to laugh out loud. But he stifled it. Shook his head. No.

"I ain't crossin' your mama," Daryl said.

Carl made to protest, and Daryl spread his hands.

"If you were me, would _you_ cross your mama?"

Daryl turned around, back to the firewood he'd been splitting when the kid came up. Pulled out the hatchet he'd left wedged in a log, there. And Carl just kept on standing there behind him. You couldn't swing an axe with a kid in back.

So he lost his patience, and snapped at him.

"Now go on and _get_— I got stuff to do."

* * *

Then one fine, hot afternoon, while Merle was out on a supply run, Dale came up to him. Asked him about the modifications on the bike. He seemed to know a lot about mechanical stuff.

He never asked Merle anything about it—only Daryl. And when he sauntered up to their tent that day, Daryl got the distinct impression he'd chosen the moment because Merle wasn't there.

And so they stood over the bike together, and looked over the engine and talked about specs. And Dale completely ignored the glaringly obvious sig runes Merle had put there on the body. He just looked right through them. Talked to Daryl easily, as if there was no difference between the two of them whatsoever.

And in that fisherman's cap and Hawaiian shirt, he looked like he'd walked straight out of some retirement village. He carried something comfortable and ordinary around with him and you got some whiff of it when you stood close by. For a short while, Daryl had been under the mistaken impression that he was Amy and Andrea's father. And it was _like_ he was somebody's father—not Daryl's, for sure… but _somebody's_.

And so Daryl decided he didn't mind being around Dale, even though Merle complained about him—said he was some goddamned kike democrat they couldn't trust.

But really, Merle complained about _everybody_.

And Daryl lingered at Dale's side a while. Listened to the rolling flow of his voice, warm like the sun gleaming off the bike's black paint. Asked him some questions about how he'd come to know so much about engines and cars and mechanical things. They talked for a good half hour before Dale went back to his RV to check on Amy and Andrea—"the girls," as he called them.

Watching Dale go, Daryl was struck with the sudden knowledge that he _liked_ these people.

He liked them, and he was scared that he liked them.

It made him worry about what they saw when they looked at him, and what Merle might do to prove that they were right.

* * *

And from Merle's point of view, everything was different.

He hated all of them. They were so smug and stuck up and fucking _civilized_.

And they were starting to try to talk to Daryl. They talked to him, and eventually he'd start right on talking to them in return.

It made Merle nervous. Like he was losing something fast and couldn't get it back.

So one morning, he just said it.

"It's a bad fucking idea to stay here, bro."

Daryl looked up at him, and Merle pressed on.

"We're not _safe_."

Daryl was quiet for a bit, clearly thinking back to that time at the FEMA camp, when they were putting up their tent.

"You said that before."

"I was _right_ before."

A clutch of people wandered by. One of them laughed cheerfully, hand on another's arm.

"Fucking idiots," Merle muttered to himself.

And in that moment, Amy appeared from behind that larger group, wearing that stupid little t-shirt with the stars all over it. She headed right for their campsite—and Merle could see she was looking straight at Daryl while she did it.

* * *

Amy smiled a small smile as she walked along the edge of their little camp, near where Daryl sat on a log, cleaning his morning kills.

"Hey," she said.

He nodded to her, silent.

He fully expected her to just keep walking by after that—and so a jolt of surprise shot through him when she sat down next to him. Looked right at the rabbit he was working on. She leaned over his work, all cheer and curiosity—like his hands weren't covered in blood and he wasn't peeling the pelt away from muscles that were still warm. She settled in a bit too close to his side—casually—like the two of them were in some goddamned café or something, having a little chat.

"You've been out in the woods so much—I've never had much of a chance to talk to you."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye—a slow, sidelong glance.

She was so little. And she was looking at him. And she had really pretty, blue-grey eyes.

She sat there, expectantly. Waited for him to say something.

The memory of that walker biting into her sneaker floated up in front of him. She was small and vulnerable and didn't know much of anything about how to protect herself. That same feeling clutched at him.

_Not again._

And he could sense Merle right behind him, moving around in their campsite. Knew with a leaden, inevitable certainty that he'd never let him really talk to her, anyway—he'd find some way or other to stop it. And really, Daryl wouldn't know what to do if Merle _didn't_ stop it.

"You brought Andrea some of those _quail_ yesterday."

She smiled to herself, as if the word was funny.

"They _were_ quail, right? Fat little bird things…"

She shrugged, tossed her hair to the side as she tilted her head.

"They weren't so bad. We both liked them."

He wasn't saying anything. She took a moment to search for something else to fill the void.

"I didn't know wild things like that tasted good… thought they'd be all tough and scraggly and…"

She paused, awkwardly. Watched him avoiding her gaze.

"… stuff."

She trailed off, then. Her nerve was starting to falter—he could sense her flailing around for more to say. He wasn't saying anything back and she couldn't carry the conversation single-handedly forever.

He figured he'd just wait her out.

"So tell me—what're you doing with that there?"

Merle snorted. At that, Daryl put any idea of waiting her out aside. Decided he needed to stop this, now. He wanted to get back to his work—to things he understood. But more than anything else, he wanted to get her the hell out of there before Merle decided to involve himself in the conversation.

So he spat out a response, then, while ripping hard at the rabbit's connective tissues. They creaked and snapped as he spoke.

"What's it look like I'm doin'? Pickin' _flowers_?"

She paused a beat. Pushed his sharpness aside, and pressed on.

"What's it like in the woods before sunrise?"

She waited. Still nothing from him. She tilted her face to the side, again. He glanced at her, then—couldn't stop himself. She was looking back at him with a completely unaffected, bright-eyed openness.

"Is it pretty?"

And he felt a pang, then.

_It's beautiful._

Merle was laughing under his breath. Repeated what she said in a low mutter.

"Is it_ pretty?" _

And still she kept trying—ignored Merle, and spoke up yet again.

"I just thought—"

"What? We're best buddies and we're gonna talk about _sunbeams_?"

She shot straight upright at that. Looked at him defiantly.

"You saved my _life_."

He stared at her. Remembered her standing there over the walker that had nearly killed him—clutching that heavy bottle with both hands—bashing in its skull and screaming at the thing like some kind of wild animal. He was pretty sure she'd kept that part of what happened to herself.

What's more—he didn't think Andrea would believe it right away if anyone told her. That woman—Amy's big sister. She _babied_ her. Clearly thought she was still a little kid. It was obvious to anyone with eyes. Just saw her the way she wanted to, and Amy followed right along. Did her best to be what Andrea wanted, without ever considering what _she_ wanted, herself.

But she stood over that walker and fucking _destroyed_ it. There was something _there_—something that made her smash in that skull with the first blunt object that came up handy. Something buried somewhere inside her that her sister was too close to see.

So when he looked up at her standing there, insisting that he'd saved her life, he almost blurted out what he was really thinking.

_You saved my life, too._

But he didn't say it. Looked down at his shoes, stone-faced and distant.

"Didn't do nothin'."

Amy let out an exasperated breath. She was getting upset.

"But you _did_—I don't—I don't _understand_ you."

He threw down the mangled rabbit. Got up to leave, and it was his turn to get exasperated when she followed alongside. She kept talking, pushing in close.

"You came after me—into all that—without a single _thought_ for yourself."

She grabbed his arm, pulled at him, trying to make him face her.

"I would have _died_, Daryl—don't you _understand_?"

He wheeled around on her. Got up in her face and let loose.

"_Fuck off_, _Blondie_—ain't no one wants you here!"

She recoiled. Went silent. He could see her eyes were wet and shining—like she might cry. And it just made him angrier. She didn't have any right to do this to him. She wasn't his girl, and she wasn't his sister.

She wasn't anything.

And Merle was still there, in the background, watching it all unfold. Leaned back in his camp chair, hands stretched behind him, folded loose and easy behind his head.

"Good call, bro," Merle said, his voice rolling on out with a low chuckle.

"That Andrea's got the better tits, anyway."

Amy's face twisted up with disgust. She let out an audible scoff in Merle's direction. Backed up, then turned swiftly to walk away.

As Daryl watched her go, he was reasonably satisfied that she wouldn't be coming back again.

* * *

And the days moved by very quickly, from there. One after another, on and on. He and Merle went through a routine of hunting, volunteering for the supply runs, and keeping up their camp.

Daryl had no idea how little time they had left.

The last night they were together, they sat out alone by their own fire. Didn't talk much. Just sat and watched the flames dance, like they often had on their camping trips when Daryl was a kid.

Lately, Merle had been acting a little distant with him, and like a full-on asshole to everyone else—he'd been putting on his toughest bluster with the people in the camp.

Daryl felt it was because he was nervous about something.

But that last night, he'd settled down. Maybe it was because they were alone together for so long, or because it was such a fine, clear, humid summer night.

They slept out in the open air instead of using one of the tents. Sometime in the late hours, Daryl woke at the sound of an animal in the woods. Listened carefully—registered its even gait. Not a walker. He settled back into his bedroll, and stared up into the night sky.

He could hear his brother breathing next to him in the darkness. Something about the sound made him think that Merle was awake, too, and looking up at the stars.

"Merle… you up?"

A pause. Then his brother's voice.

"Hmm."

They didn't say anything else. Daryl just lay there in the dark, knowing that his brother was there beside him. Hearing the same sounds, in the same darkness.

And that was enough.


	15. You and Me

_This is it, folks. The last chapter of The Blood Done Signed my Name. I have enjoyed writing this more than I would ever have guessed, and I appreciate that you would read what I've written more than I can say.  
_

_I've really grown to really love Merle. I've no doubt the show will go and break my heart when I inevitably get Jossed. I guess fanfic has its inherent risks... :)  
_

_I'd like to thank a couple fellow fans, and toss a rec your way. Designation, thank you so much for letting me talk through some of the end of this story with you. It was invaluable and your insights enriched the story immeasurably. Surplus Imagination has written a really amazing little one-shot called "Vengeance" I'd like to turn your attention towards. It deals with some very similar ideas in quite a different way. I really think you may enjoy the perspective provided there, so do go look it up.  
_

_I hate to say goodbye to you all, and goodbye to this story. But I already have an idea for my next move. A post season 2 fic, tentatively titled "Down in the Willow Garden." It is a murder mystery, set in the same universe as this fic. I'm hoping I'll get going on that in a month or so.  
_

_This has been such a true pleasure. Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me.  
_

* * *

_You and Me:_

And then it was over.

Merle was gone, and Daryl was all alone.

When they told him what happened, Daryl looked for him, of course—he looked. But he'd come back with nothing but his severed hand.

His severed _hand_.

Then the dead came in the night, and there was no time to think. And there were piles of bodies to see to when the sun came up.

He did his part. Helped with everything as much as he could. It was simply what was necessary. They needed everyone hard at work to dispose of the remains and clear up camp. And they needed to make sure none of their own rose up to hurt anyone else.

So he worked for hours in the harsh sun—from the moment it rose it seared straight into his skin. He was drenched in sweat.

The hours went by. But when a moment presented itself, he slipped away from the crowd. Pulled the small, cloth bundle from his bag and took it into the woods.

He had a spade over his shoulder.

* * *

Much later on, as the sun set that day, Merle drove the stolen cube van up into the now-abandoned quarry. Mostly, he wanted to see if Daryl was waiting for him. But he also wanted to see what had happened after he'd set the walkers on the people there.

So he stepped out of the cab, and walked into the empty clearings that once held the camp.

There were a few collapsed tents. Some of them were torn and stained with blood. Just like at the FEMA shelter. The evening light floated over them, highlighting the long shadows.

And the mass of tents scattered there looked like collapsed, dying animals. The canvas remnants swelled against the wind like lungs laboring to breathe.

He watched the tents swell and gasp for a long time. The shadows grew longer.

And then he heard the first of the voices.

_You did this._

He darted around. Expected someone behind him. But no one was there.

It was just him, imagining things.

But behind him there, right where he turned, there was blood on the ground. And there was more beyond it. Some of it in thick pools. That meant people had died, or were dying from the bites… were about to turn into walkers because of what he'd done.

Standing there, he began to feel a little nauseous.

He shook his head. Rebelled against it—protected himself. Pushed the thoughts away like they were trying to bite him. He'd had no _choice_. Merle knew it. This was the only possible way it could have gone.

But he'd never killed anyone before.

Now he had.

But he _had_ to do it. This was just the sort of thing that happened in this new world of theirs. After all, Daryl shot that guy at the FEMA camp—the one who was trying to climb up with Merle onto the truck. _Daryl_ killed someone. He'd done it because he _had_ to do it.

And what Merle had done… it was so _easy_. He didn't realize how easy it would be. Rounding up the dead… they were stupider than chickens and it was nothing to herd them together and lead them along where you wanted them to go.

And so he slipped up the hills in the dark, letting them follow at his heels. When he got there, he evaded them easily, and let them keep on moving straight into the camp.

And as he slipped off into the night, a girlish scream rang out in the darkness.

He went back to his stolen truck and drove away—didn't bother to try to watch. When he was far enough out, he crawled into the back of the van to rest. To nurse his wounds.

He'd been absolutely exhausted, so he slept very well.

* * *

Daryl walked through the woods surrounding the camp. He chose a small clearing in a stand of trees, off in a quiet spot at the side of the quarry.

When he was done digging the hole, he sank to the ground on his knees. Unwrapped the cloth bundle, and took out his brother's hand. He held it in his own.

And he remembered when he'd held that hand in the shed—with the driving rain beating down everywhere around them. He'd held it while Merle clung to him and begged him not to leave.

And he'd held his daddy's hand, once. In the hospital. And Amy's hand, when the walkers came for them both.

He'd held that woman's hand, at the FEMA shelter—coated with that damning film of blood. He'd never learned her name.

And in _this_ moment, he held _this_ hand—Merle's severed hand. It was cold and grey and starting to rot. Didn't weigh very much. Seemed very light for something that had caused so much trouble over the years.

The skin was starting to feel dry and stiff to the touch, and there was already a faint smell. But Daryl held it without a moment's thought. Stared at it. Couldn't look away.

What that cop—_Rick_—what he and those others had done to Merle—good _God_. Imagining his brother chained up there, with nothing but that hacksaw… if Daryl thought too much about it, he'd probably throw up.

He never knew he could feel the kind of anger that was smoldering deep within his gut. It was a smoky, slow fire of pure rage that charred every word out of his mouth a deep black. It burned inside him, spreading wider—swelling red and furious as they all walked around like what happened to Merle didn't matter at all.

If he'd been there, Daryl would never, _ever_ have strung any one of them up like that. Trussed and ready for the geeks to eat.

He was no coward.

After all, he'd gone after Amy. Didn't think twice. But then _Andrea_ just left Merle there, knowing full well what Daryl had done before. He'd given her those few more weeks with her sister, and she didn't do a thing for Merle.

She didn't even _care_.

Daryl would have taken on anything before he did what those put together, educated, city people did. It was so unbelievably, inconceivably, _inhumanly_ cruel.

It was like something Merle might do.

* * *

Merle walked around the remains of the camp as the sun lowered below the horizon.

A bit of torn canvas brushed his arm, fluttering in the wind. He made to reach out for it with his right hand. Checked himself, and used the left. There was blood on the nylon weave, brown and dry. It flaked against his fingers. And as he touched it, his daddy's voice rang out behind him.

_Be a man, Merle._

He spun towards it. Nothing. But he was sure he'd felt a breath on his ear.

He was sure there'd been an acrid whiff of tobacco and halitosis and Colt 45 hanging in the air.

* * *

Daryl filled in the earth over Merle's hand. Buried it in the woods, silently and all alone.

Until now, there'd been no real time to really think about what happened.

When he went back for his brother with those others, they'd been attacked almost immediately—sent off on a completely different chase. Nearly lost that plucky little Asian kid, Glenn. Had to go through some pretty weirdass shit to get him back.

And when they got back to camp, the dead were on them out of nowhere, and everything was darkness and chaos.

And then the morning dawned, as it always does. He saw Amy lying dead on the ground.

Andrea wouldn't let them put her down—wouldn't let them keep her from rising up again.

He could see exactly what she was doing, sure. She just wanted to talk to her sister again. Wanted to see her moving around so she could pretend she was still alive. Wanted to unload whatever she needed to say—wanted to shrug off whatever misplaced guilt she was carrying on her shoulders.

It coated his anger with an acid tinge. He couldn't imagine anything more selfish.

He wanted to shout at her that Amy wouldn't hear shit. Amy was _dead_. Letting her get up like that… it was reckless. It was _pointless_. It was cruel.

He remembered Amy's voice.

_What's it like in the woods before sunrise? Is it pretty?_

That little girl. She'd had such an honest, open face.

And what the walkers were like… she shouldn't _ever_ have to be that way.

He stood there that morning, and looked over at Andrea from a safe distance. Looked at her sitting with sister's body. And he remembered when Amy came up to talk to him, and how he'd driven her off.

_Fuck off, Blondie—ain't no one wants you here._

He looked at her pale, dead body laid out flat on the dirt, and thought and thought about that time she walked away from him.

He was very glad he made her do it.

* * *

Past and present started blurring together. Merle was feeling very sick. Lightheaded. Yesterday and today and years and years ago all seemed like the same moment, then.

So while he stood there in front of the mangled tents, his mind floated backwards. He was in the stolen van, just a few hours before. The memory was so vivid it was like it was happening all over again.

He passed out in that van after setting the walkers on the camp. And when he woke up in the back, the sun was just starting to lower in the sky. He'd slept the whole day through—for hours and hours, curled up in a limp heap. He'd opened his eyes to the dark, sheet metal ceiling. He remembered where he was, and what had happened.

_I had to do it._

It had been his first conscious thought that day.

The bloody stump had soiled its wrappings with blood while he slept. So he'd had to rip the cloth away and start over—tearing at the clotted wound. It started bleeding again. Not in a terrifying rush like when it first happened—not like that, thank _God_. This was slow and seeping.

And when he went to stand up, he tried to push up on his hands and mashed his wound against the floor. Cried out through searing jolts of sharp, white pain. The sound of his voice echoed weirdly against the metal walls.

Standing in the camp by those tents, and remembering that pain, he clutched at the stump. Clutched at it above the makeshift bandages. Above where'd he'd burned the wound to seal it shut. He stared and stared at it. It didn't seem like his own body.

That just couldn't be his arm. The pain couldn't be his pain.

This had to be a mistake.

He walked past the tents, towards the treeline. Through empty campsites with their dead fires. His vision wobbled and swayed.

All of it seemed like some kind of fever dream. _Did_ he have a fever? He was sweating hard. But it could just be the press of the humid air, trying to choke him as it cleaved all over his skin.

He saw another pool of blood on the ground—whose, he couldn't know. And he remembered his own blood gushing all over him—warm and wet—staining his clothes, smearing everywhere. Leaving a trail behind him.

And he stepped on a twig, and it sounded just like the gristling snap of the tendons when they burst away from his wrist. As he walked further along, he could hear the clattering of the handcuffs as clearly as if it was happening all over again. The metal rang against that pipe as he made it through the last of flesh and bone.

He could hear his hand landing on that roof with a muffled thud.

And when he'd finally cut through, the blood had gushed and gushed out from him as he staggered away, despite how tight he'd pulled his belt around his arm. It left him weak and dizzy and, strangely, deeply _thirsty_. He could hear his pulse ringing in his ears, and he had a headache that seemed like it would never lift.

He would never know how very close he'd come to bleeding out.

But even a day later, he knew how very weak he was. He felt strange… like he was wading through deep water. Everything was slow and hazy and dreamlike. It was hard to think clearly. He could only really _feel_.

When he'd fled that highrise, he'd let blind rage keep him upright. The stairwell full of walkers was spinning around him, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

But he had to _fight_—had to kill his way through what those city assholes had left in his path when they ran away. He attacked those crowds all alone, left-handed and weak and sick with terror. So he let himself hate them as much as he could. Let that hatred grow white hot. He clung to it. It was the only hope he had to survive.

And he _did_ survive. All thanks to his own damn self.

When he got out, he slipped off to hide inside a building nearby—like a wounded animal. It used to be a bank. The blood had stopped trailing after him by then, and none of the dead saw him creep in. So he just collapsed there on the tight weave of the office carpet. Slumped in the corner to rest and recover. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, propped against the wall by the storefront windows.

Things faded in and out for a long time—the movement of the light. The sounds of the dead shuffling around outside.

And then he'd heard Daryl's voice.

Not clearly enough to make out the words. Just the tone and rhythm he'd recognize anywhere. The sound made him start awake.

At first, he thought it was part of a dream. But Daryl was _there_. Just outside. He could almost touch him if the window wasn't there between them.

Daryl was with that asshole cop and his asshole friends. And he was _helping_ them. Helping them do _what_, precisely, Merle wasn't sure.

So he slipped out from his hiding place, and trailed after them, a good ways back. Always concealing himself carefully. Watching, completely unnoticed. No one expected him, here, and the crowds of dead made for a powerful distraction.

Daryl might be the best tracker Merle had ever known, but _no one_ left a trace on asphalt.

So he could watch them from a distance—invisible and unseen. Like a crow on the power lines, or like a ghost.

He hid outside the tower as they checked the roof for him. But he saw most of what happened otherwise—right up until that stupid Asian kid got himself dragged off by those fucking gangbangers. And Daryl… he went right on after him. Stopped looking for Merle altogether.

Daryl chose that fucking chink bastard over him. Went off after that Glenn like _he_ was his brother.

And Merle remembered Daryl at that FEMA camp, then. What he'd thought Merle had done there.

His wounds had just barely healed from that night. The bruises on his ribs had only just faded completely from where Daryl had beaten him.

And so he knew that whatever story those assholes told him about what went down, Daryl would believe it.

Merle tried to think through the haze in his brain. The heat on his skin. The pain stabbing through his arm and crushing against his temples. There was only one thing that this could all mean. It had finally happened.

Daryl had finally given up on him, like Merle always knew he would.

* * *

Daryl laid the hand down in the earth, and tried his best to accept that Merle had left him.

He _had_ to know that Daryl would come for him—would never let them leave him there like that. But Merle had taken off, without leaving a single clue as to where to find him.

He was gone.

There _must_ have been a reason—maybe walkers. Other survivors. Some imminent danger he had to escape, fast.

Merle wouldn't have just abandoned him for nothing.

He wondered where Merle had gone. Felt a dim foreboding. Wondered where this thing would take Merle without Daryl to keep an eye on him.

That made him almost desperate to go out searching, again. He almost stood up and headed to one of the cars.

But there was no way to find him. No shadow of a lead. No hope.

It was that fog of fucking uncertainty, again… the fog of war. Nothing they did was ever enough. Neither of them could ever plan for the brutal, horrible things that happened so suddenly in this world.

So Daryl had ended up alone. Merle had left him, for whatever reasons there had been.

* * *

For all the long decades they'd been together, Merle had known he would lose Daryl, someday. He'd been afraid of it ever since his brother was old enough to run away when he tried to hit him.

So he gripped hard. Hit harder. Pulled and fought and tore and bruised. Struggled hard to find new ways to force Daryl to stay close.

Sometimes it was all he could think about.

But he knew that Daryl would find a way to get free. He was _better_ than their shitty little world on their shitty little dead-end road. It was obvious from almost the first. There was _always_ something special about him—something greater and larger than the life fate had thrown at him.

He was too damned smart and he had too much inside him—Merle never really understood everything that was in there, completely. But he could sense it. And it made Merle feel as fake and insubstantial as the toy trucks and army men he played with as a kid. Small and cheap and cast in plastic. Scuffed up with some of the bits chipped off.

The shabby house on that shabby dead-end with the shabby people who lived inside it… _that_ was where Merle was meant to be. He fit right on in, and made himself at home.

So he _had_ to have Daryl with him—he had to have a part of that special, unnamable thing that had come into his agonizingly lonely life like some kind of miracle when Daryl was born.

The rest was nothingness. A blank void. And that was all he could see in his future, now that Daryl was gone. Gone without a trace.

Those _people_. Those fucking town people with their fucking civilized scruples that had turned out to be so fucking _conditional_. Beating down that fucking asshole T-Dog? That was unforgivable. It got you a gun to the head. But chaining a man up to be eaten? That was just _fine_.

They were just like that officious prick doctor who saw to his daddy when he was dying. The one he'd punched out. He'd almost gotten arrested over that, until Daryl talked them out of it. These assholes were just like that doctor. They were all so clean cut and smug and proud. They lorded over everything, like they were the fucking arbiters of fucking _fate_.

They'd taken his right hand—and they'd taken _Daryl_. And to Merle, it was like Daryl and the hand were really the same thing.

They'd taken it all. And that more than anything else showed him that what he'd done was right.

* * *

Daryl covered his brother's hand with loose soil. The crumbled bits of clay smelled damp and rich and good as he turned them over with the spade. And then the hand was buried. Swallowed up. Returned to the earth that made it. He looked down at where it lay.

No one really understood about Merle.

The people in the camp—T-Dog and Andrea and Lori and _Rick_—who was most to blame—they all thought Merle was a monster. He could read it in their faces. They were as sure of it as they could be sure of anything.

But they didn't know a single fucking _thing_ about Merle—they couldn't really see him. They just saw what he looked like, and listened to him run his mouth.

So they only saw what they expected to see. What Merle showed them.

And the worst was what Lori said right in front of him.

_Merle Dixon? He's not worth one of your lives, even with guns thrown in._

She said it right in front of Daryl like he wasn't standing there. And she cut his _hair _that time. She _smiled_ at him. He'd seen straight through her and chose to keep her secrets. And _still_ she'd say something like that to his face. And no one seemed to disagree with her.

His brother was just a worthless, ugly _thing_ to them.

Some kind of monster.

* * *

Merle stood out where he and Daryl had kept their camp. Everything was completely cleared out.

Daryl was gone. Didn't wait for him. Left no note. Took the bike and all their things.

He'd found a note taped to a car out near the front—and he got hopeful, then. But the note wasn't for him. It wasn't for anyone he'd ever heard of. He'd crumpled it up and threw it in the bushes the moment he saw that it wasn't written in Daryl's hand.

He gave up, then. Went back to his stolen truck. Sank down against the front seat. Curled into himself, weak and sick.

Thoughts were picking at him. Swarms of memory. The baby birds were screeching at him from the foot of the white oak. Outside the rain-soaked shed, that family of walkers they'd killed were in a pile—surrounded by carrion birds that feasted on them, bit by bit.

And Merle… he felt like other parts of his body were being ripped off—torn away by hands and chewed apart by teeth. His skin itched and his bones ached.

He was full of holes, and they bled.

And then he was seven years old, and Daryl was just an infant, quietly asleep against one of their gran's large, freckled arms. She had her Bible out. And Merle was sitting on the floor, and she was leaning over him from her chair. She seemed so large and old and indomitable. She towered over him, staring with her stern eyes, and recited from the gospel of Matthew.

_And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast __it__ from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not __that__ thy whole body should be cast into hell._

And he sat in the truck at the quarry, listening to her voice. It echoed in the evening air, fading away into the heavy darkness.

And all the fight went out of him, then. He crumpled over on the steering wheel, shaken and drained. He buried his face against his single hand, breathing in hard gasps.

He just couldn't hold it in any longer. He'd been holding it in for years.

So he collapsed there, and wept like a child.

* * *

Daryl perched over the buried hand. Looked down at where it lay. It was almost time to go.

Daryl couldn't explain it to the others, but he knew that Merle was no monster.

He was no monster—he was Daryl's _brother_. He was important. He _mattered_.

But there were no words for it. There was just anger and fists and fighting—as if he could beat it into them and get them to understand that way.

All alone, in the woods, his anger was dull and low. It murmured in the background, quietly, like the voices of the people working out in the distance.

He laid his hand over the pile of loose earth. Rested his palm against that rich smelling soil and imagined what was buried down deep within it. The last part of his brother. The only thing he had left.

He thought about the buried hand, and then opened his mouth to speak to it, as if Merle would be able to hear what he said.

At the last moment, he stopped himself. Paused—held his breath. Looked around the little clearing, left and right. No one was anywhere nearby. He was all alone with the summer trees and gently nodding grass. The sunlight cut through the branches, harsh and bright and hot. It glared against the ground. The sound of the cicadas was thick in the air, and he could hear the people working in the distance—picking up what remained of the camp as best they could.

It was safe. He was alone.

So he breathed in hard, resting his hand over that spot of ground. Looked down at the loose earth, and spoke to what he'd buried there.

"I love you."

The sound of his voice hung in the air a moment, calm and quiet and steady. And he sat there, then, reflecting.

He'd never said it before—not to anyone. And saying it now didn't feel the way he thought it would.

It felt like saying goodbye.

He stood then, and turned. Pushed down the urge to look back, and went out through the underbrush to join the others.

There was silence in the clearing when he left. The sun fell over the grass and the insects floated noiselessly in the air.

Daryl walked out into an uncertain future. A new life.


End file.
